#Impossible to understand how you’re not coming back but I can’t say it out loud Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[amandayetagain]

the exit is so painfully kent parson

[everythingseasoning]

Crying (oh god)

(Also, Conan’s lyrics and the way his music hits the knife right thru the heart—)

Mid-November, and I'm sippin' on a half-cold coffee

[irndad]

hii dollface, would u write smtg abt hotch being jealous?

like he's trying to hide it from making the team notices when he saw some officer flirting with r?

no pressure in writing, lovey. change it however u want or ignore it if u dont feel like writing it (i completely understands u 🤍)

my love this has lived in my brain so relentlessly <3 i hope you love it!!!! thank you for requesting!! wc: 1.7k

It is incredibly easy to like her.

She’s charismatic in a way that’s almost universally appealing, and he’s memorized the shape of her wide grin. She smiles with her whole face, and Aaron hasn’t really spent too much time trying to make people smile. He’s had success in some ways, but when she smiles at him there’s something in his chest that burns in achingly lovely way. 

At first, he had assumed her kindness was a way to win him over. In her first week, she had noticed there was a rip in his tie (which he’s not sure how could even happen) and she’d whipped out a pocket sewing kit, repairing it. 

He tries not to think about the fact that she’s beautiful. She is, though, in spirit and in appearance. He’s an expert in controlled presentation, but to some extent she must know that’s he’s fond of her. 

When they’d first met (which he can still picture in his minds’ eye- her oversized sweater tucked into her tailored pants, the purple lipstick adorning her beautiful smile) he’d tried to keep his distance. It’s easy to romanticize her, and being her friend felt a little impossible when seeing her as more felt so inevitable.

This plan did not go well, and Aaron had officially tossed it when one day, the babysitter for Jack fell through when he was halfway around the world. She’d picked him up from school and tended to him, and Aaron had come home to a blanket fort on his kitchen floor, and a happy little boy who wanted her to come over every day. 

So it's a little hard to ignore how much he adores her. 

She doesn’t normally want to come out to the scene and they usually don’t require it, but they’re going out to a place she spent most of her twenties, and she knew people in the local PD, so Aaron had asked her to come. 

She’d done so without complaint, although he knows she doesn’t sleep well on the jet. No one knows where the nicer pillows and blankets came from, and Aaron would prefer it that way. 

Anyway. 

The bullpen of this department is chaotic and a certain caretaking is living at the edge of Aaron’s consciousness, a protective desire to keep her from the loudness and violence that she’s typically protected from. 

He’s still thinking this, when he hears her voice over the chaotic hum of the department. 

“Oh my god, Logan!”

Her voice is joyful, and when Aaron turns to see who she’s looking at, it’s an agent. He can tell that he’s not a police officer for many reasons- the fact that he’s got a long, shaggy haircut and a 5 o clock shadow and a leather jacket on his shoulders. The local police would be too strict, and he must be some kind of different authority to be allowed to be here.

He hears the stranger call her name back, and they hug. 

It’s a quick thing, but imbued with deep fondness. Aaron’s not sure he’s ever hugged her for more than a second- just a congratulations when his commendation came in. She’d smelled like roses. 

Now, she’s hugging Logan. 

“Hotch,” she says, a smile still in her voice, “This is Logan! We went to graduate school together. He’s brilliant, I can’t believe he’s down here.”

Her voice is seeped in admiration, and Aaron feels an ugly amount of what can only be described as jealousy. 

“Great to meet you. You’re the unit chief, yeah?”

“SSA Aaron Hotchner,” he offers the man a curt nod, “Have you met the team?”

He goes through the motions of introducing him to the team- he greets Reid with a warm smile and tells him that he’s read his papers. Logan compliments Emily’s shirt, and Morgan’s watch. 

He’s incredibly charismatic.

Is Aaron charismatic? He doesn’t think so. His team, who probably adore him as much as anyone could, still note that he can be harsh, prickly. He never smiles, he knows. He lacks expressiveness. Logan is all fluid movement and easy conversation, and when he takes the jacket off, Aaron sees a great deal of tattoos on his forearm, his sweater sleeves slid up. 

He’d smile for her. 

What should be a good thing, but hurts- Logan is an excellent consultant profiler. He’s thoughtful and helpful and she has an easy rapport with him. Aaron- he’s so bad at talking to women. 

She makes Aaron feel like he’s good at it though. When they drive together, the conversation is easy and feels nice. It’s like sunbathing, basking in the light of her attention and intention. 

With the help of the man that Aaron has decided he hates, the case is finished up quickly. 

He can’t shake the thought they’ve probably dated. It’s not his business- this crush, although this word feels inadequate for the intensity of the way she makes him feel. It’s a private thing he’s never going to act on- he’s older and her superior, and besides- 9 stab wounds and a lifetime worth of issues is a million times less appealing than someone like Logan. Young, exuberant probably not too afraid to ask for what he wants.

“Drink tonight?” Logan asks the team, and a chorus of yes’s and please’s echo through the emptying bullpen. 

“Raincheck,” she says to Logan, “I’ll see you next time I’m in town, yeah?” She beams at him, hugging him in a quick-but-too-long-for-Aaron’s-taste motion, and the string in Aaron’s chest that feels like it’s been pulled all week threatens to pull him under.

After everyone files out, she offers to help him fill out paperwork in his office. It’s just like her, so kind and sweet. Spending her free time filling out reports to make his workload go easier.

About a half hour of amenable silence passes, before Aaron chooses to speak.

“So, you and Logan.”

“He’s great, right?”

Regrettably, Aaron agrees.

“He seems very kind.”

“Yeah, he and his fiancee are really fun. They travel all over, kite-board and do tons of adventure stuff, he’s pretty awesome.”

A moment passes.

It’s like a balloon losing air, the feeling of relief taking the place of panic.

“I thought you two were romantically involved.” He doesn’t know how to verbalize things casually. If he lets it up, he might do something dangerous like tell her that he wants to be someone who romances her, wants to be the person who kisses her after dates and holds an umbrella over her head when she’s caught in the rain. He wants to be what she comes homes to, and it’s a confession living in the back of his throat, threatening to escape at every moment. 

She sucks in a harsh breath, and he wonders if it’s a misstep to have told her- it’s not a confession, really. It sounds like one though- why would he care? What makes it his business?

“Not that that’s relevant to me,” he stammers, “You’re free to engage with whoever you’d like-“

“I know, Hotch.” She doesn’t grace him with his first name, but her voice is fond and warm, her doe eyes meeting his. He likes it, he decides. 

“I’m not seeing him,” she continues, her body shifting to face him, “I think he’s a little…casual for me.”

He thinks of Logan’s leather jacket and unshaven face, rugged appearance and compares it to how he presents himself- clean cut and sharp lines, his suits tailed to fit him like a glove. 

“You prefer something a little more…dignified?” He hears himself say with more confidence then he feels- her implication is clear, but he wonders if he’s mishearing it. 

She tips her head back and he hears her lovely laugh ring through the air like something sacred, and he waits to hear her response. 

“I don’t know, I just know that I’ve been liking this guy for a while,” she muses, looking down at her fingernails, “But he hasn’t seemed to pick up on any of my hints.”

On one of his braver days, he’d told her that he liked that purple lipstick. He hasn’t seen her without it since. She’d always been so kind to everyone that it was hard to notice when her treatment towards him was special, but he thinks it might be. How quick she offers to help with Jack- gives away a Saturday evening to spend with him, even though she sees too much of his face at work.

Her friend from grad school offered to get drinks, and she’s here, telling him what she looks for in a guy.

He tries to be logical about the whole thing, but it’s a bit hard- she’s funny and warm and Aaron loves being around her- loves her company enough to maybe ask for more of it. 

“If this ‘guy’ did like you,” he murmurs, intentionally not meeting her gaze, the precision of which is boring a hole into the side of his head, “How would he go about that?”

He’s not sure what the point of being coy is now, but he can’t seem to stop. He does look down to her and meet her eyes. 

“I think I’d probably corner him,” she says breathlessly. They’re quite close together, now. He wonders if she likes his aftershave. She tugs a hundred through her hair, a nervous but incredibly attractive gesture, “Y’know, if everyone we worked with went to get drinks, and it was just us. If he was amenable to that.”

“If he was amenable to that.”

A rush of emotion licks up his spine- it’s fun, flirting with her. The creep of warmth on her cheek, how her fingers are brushing hers. 

“I think he might be.”

Purple lipstick, rose perfume mixing with the scent of expensive aftershave- he thinks he might be able to kiss her, now. He’s never been good at knowing when to take the jump, but this is something he can do. He can let her know that he wants it. 

She reads him well enough, it turns out, and she kisses him. It’s a surprise and he is so rusty at this and yet- his hand stand on the small of her back, pulling her in and he can feel her lovely smile against him. She’s warm and joyful and she’d kissed him, and all he could do was lean in-

“I think he might be too.” She says, significantly less color on her lips, and more on his, he imagines.

She doesn’t have to wonder, though. When Aaron kisses her again, he decides- he will make her incredibly certain of his affections. 

[lovegalor333]

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊✧˚ · .

you’re gonna be ok (paige x reader)

summary: you’re going through a tough time and have pushed paige away but she finally realises something is wrong

content warnings: talks of depression and ed behaviours/language

requested by: @melpthatsme 💗

Your girlfriend was getting suspicious and rightly so. You had just given her another lame excuse as to why you couldn’t have dinner with her tonight. That was the third time this week.

At first it was ‘too much homework’, then a ‘headache’ and now it was your ‘period’. All lies.

As you lay curled up in your bed, all lights turned off, you sobbed silent tears until your pillow was saturated. You felt guilty lying to Paige but you couldn’t go out, especially not to eat.

You wasn’t entirely sure why Paige even wanted to be seen in public with you anyway, why she was with you at all actually. Paige was beautiful. Like the most beautifully perfect woman there ever was. Her eyes shone bright at all times and whether her hair was pulled into a tight ponytail or left natural and loose, framing her face, it looked immaculate. She was intelligent and athletic, maintaining an almost perfect GPA while simultaneously leading her team in back to back wins. Paige was everything and you, you were nothing.

You hated everything about yourself and you were usually good at hiding it. Painting on a fake smile and laughing when others laughed, mirroring your friends actions to make it seem like everything was just fine but it was getting harder to hide. You were drinking and smoking just to get respite from your thoughts. You were dragging yourself to gatherings just to count down the minutes until you could leave and be alone in your room where you could finally let your guard down.

You were proud at how long you had gone keeping this to yourself but it was almost impossible now. You didn’t want to talk. You didn’t want to leave the apartment. You didn’t want to eat. You didn’t want to see anyone. In fact, you didn’t want to see yourself. You had even gone as far to cover every mirror in your room just to avoid the reflection that made you sick to your stomach.

You felt like you had cried a river this past week but the tears wouldn’t stop, you thought there would be nothing left to give but you were a never ending pit of sadness.

You hear shuffling and muffled voices coming from your living room, your roommates must be home. You thanked yourself for keeping your lights off and closed your eyes so if they came into your room, they’d think you were sleeping.

A few seconds past before you heard a light knock at your door. You ignored it. Pressing yourself further into your mattress, wishing it would swallow you whole. Then came the click of the handle being turned and the door squeaking open.

You kept your body as still as possible, holding your breath in hopes that whoever was disturbing you would think twice but that doesn’t happen. Instead your bedroom light is flicked on and your door is closed with force, practically slammed.

“Why did you lie to me?” You recognise Paiges voice immediately and it’s a mixture of pissed off but also upset and you know it’s your fault.

“What?” You say, even though you heard her loud and clear.

“I know you’re not on your period. Our cycles are synced. They have been for months. Why did you lie?” Paige asks again and you feel so stupid for making such a rookie error.

Paige was right. Your cycles were synced, it happened often with women and girls that spent a lot of time together, so when you were on your period, she was too. She had caught you out in your lie.

“I don’t know.” You mummble into your duvet, still curled up tightly.

“You’ve blown me off three times this week. You barely answer my calls and texts, it’s like I have to force you to see me and now you’re lying to me and you can’t even be bothered to tell me why?” Paige rants and even though you still haven’t looked at her you can tell she’s pacing your room.

“I don’t understand what’s going on. I thought we were good but maybe not.” She says and you physically feel your heart brake at her words but you can’t bring yourself to say anything other than, “Maybe.”

“What?” She asks confused even though she was the one who said it first, “Y/N, can you at least fucking look at me?” She snapped and you know thats the least you owe her so you slowly roll yourself around so you’re no longer facing the wall and push yourself up into a sitting position but you can’t bring yourself to lift your eyes from your lap.

“I wanted to take you for dinner, spend some time with you. Just be with you and I thought you would have wanted the same but instead you’re in bed!” Paige continued and you just took her onslaught of words, you didn’t have the energy to argue or even defend yourself.

“I’m sorry.” You muttered, picking at the already raw skin around your nails.

“Will you just look at me? Do you want to break-” You finally look at Paige and she stops mid-sentence, “Have you been crying?”

You ignore her question because your heart is racing and more tears are threatening to fall at what she was about to ask, “Finish what you were about to say.” You whisper but she doesn’t need to, you knew what she was going to say. She was going to ask if you wanted to break up.

“What’s the matter? What happened? Why were you crying?” Paige asks all at once, any annoyance in her tone has been replaced with concern and her facial expression shifted from dark and frowning to soft and doe eyed.

“I wasn’t.” You lie, “Finish what you were about to say.”

“Yes you were. Your eyes are red and puffy, your skin is blotchy,” She walks towards you, “and your pillows wet. Why were you crying?”

“You want to break up.” You answer your own question.

“No. No, I don’t. But I don’t understand what’s going on with you, I thought maybe you did.” She says honestly sitting on the edge of your bed.

“I don’t.”

“Why were you crying baby? Tell me what’s on your mind.” She says placing a hand on your leg.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“It’s too much Paige. My mind is too much, it’s too dark. You don’t deserve that.” You begin to cry again and it quickly turns into sobs.

“Hey, baby, come here.” She whispered, pulling you into her chest and onto her lap, she wrapped her arms around your body and held you close, “You’re scaring me.” She admits, “Tell me what’s going on my love. I want to help you.”

“You deserve more than this Paige.” You choke out in between sobs, you’re hyperventilating now, your body shaking in your girlfriends arms but she continues to hold you tight and close.

“But I want you. I love you.” She pulls away from you slightly so she can look you in your eyes and she holds your face tenderly, a hand on each cheek, “You’re all I want, my beautiful girl.”

“Don’t say that.” You weep, jumping out of her lap.

“Don’t say what?”

“Don’t say I’m beautiful. Don’t say any of it. It’s not true.” You cross your arms over yourself wishing you could shrink down into the smallest dimensions and eventually disappear.

“Baby, what are you saying? What’s going on?” She reaches out for you but you pull away not wanting to be touched.

Paige properly looks around your room for the first time and you watch as she notices everything and you see the cogs turning in her head as her eyes fall to your mirror, covered by a sweater. She sees the paper taped to your wall with your weight written on it followed by the harshest of words that you thought about yourself. She sees the empty alcohol bottles on your dresser and the half smoked blunt on your bedside table. And when she finally looks at you, in your oversized clothes, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, her eyes were glossy and her forehead creased as she fought back tears of her own.

“I don’t know what’s going on in your head, but I do know that I do love you and you are beautiful and I’ll tell you that everyday until you believe it.” She says as a tear slips down her cheek.

Paige walks over to you, taking you by your hands first and kissing both of them. She pulls on the sleeves of your sweater and you reluctantly let her pull it over your head so your just standing there in your bra. You close your eyes not wanting to see her reaction to your body, the thought of it made you sick. You felt her lips press to your stomach and she peppered kisses up your torso, “My beautiful baby.” She mumbled against your skin as she continued to kiss over your chest and onto your neck.

She took you to your bed, laying you down and she hooked her fingers into the waistband of your joggers, pulling them off, exposing your legs. You wanted to grab the sheet and cover yourself up but her mouth met your thigh and she pecked it gently, moving over the the other, “So perfect.” She breathed, the tips of her fingers trailing down your legs.

You lay on your bed, eyes closed, tears streaming out and you feel Paige hover above you, “Look at me baby.” She says softly, wiping the tears that soaked your cheeks. You flutter your eyes open and look up at Paige who’s looking down at you, eyes filled with nothing but love and care. “Please don’t shut me out. I’m here for you. Anything you need me to do, I’ll do it. I just want you to be OK. I need you to be OK. You’re everything to me.” She says, blue eyes locked on yours.

“Can you just hold me tonight?” You sniffle. “Of course.”

Paige lays on your bed, pulling you into her arms, she presses her lips to your head before her fingers find your hair and she runs through it gently, “You’re gonna be OK.” She whispers comfortingly. “You promise?”

“I promise.”

˖ ᡣ𐭩 ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊✧˚ · .

a/n: i wrote this so tired so forgive any mistakes 😭 already want to write a part 2 🥺🥺

[ennabear]

how do you think mean!abby would react to reader being overstimulated? out in public or at home?

when you’re in public, i think she’d be more alert, more understanding. especially if you’re somewhere loud, hot, crowded, or just uncomfortable in general. she’d be quick to whisk you away from wherever’s overstimulating you, finding a private place, whether it be her car or an empty bathroom.

abby noticed you pouting after giving her short, one syllable answers for the past twenty minutes. obviously, you were in a bad mood. she stops dead in her tracks, causing you to bump into her from behind.

“are you okay?” she asks, although she knows the answer.

“yeah.” you mumble.

“are you lying to me?” she smiles.

“no.”

“tell me what’s wrong?”

“no.”

“i’m not mad, i swear.” she says calmly. “i just wanna know what’s wrong so i can help you.”

“what’s wrong is that i’m tired.” you start. “we’ve been here for like 4 hours, it’s a hundred degrees out, i’m sweating so much my shirt is sticking to my body, my feet hurt, i’m hungry, and i wanted to leave 3 hours ago.” you gush.

abby chuckles, she knows she’s right. you scoff at her, apparently she thinks your discomfort is hilarious. she ignores your complaints and instead wraps you up in a hug, rubbing up and down your back. “do you wanna leave?” she asks.

“yes!” you practically shout. “i’ve wanted to leave. for hours.”

swiping away the tears that escape from your eyes, she picks you up in a bridal carry and hauls you all the way back to the car. you can’t help but giggle, suddenly so grateful for your girlfriend’s giant muscles.

soon enough she’s setting you in the car, the hot black leather stinging your skin. she climbs in the drivers seat, starting up the car and flicking the air conditioner to the coolest setting. you sigh, the change of scenery starting to calm your nerves. abby reaches over to grab your hand and places a kiss to each of your fingertips, punctuating the last one with a whispered “i love you.”

as for being at home, i think she’d be a little less put together. her home is her safe space, so why are you so worked up? she’d still take care of you, obviously, but it would take a little longer for her to figure out exactly what’s wrong.

abby hears your muffled sobs coming from the kitchen, so she rises from the couch and practically flies over to you, terrified that you chopped one of your fingers off or something. instead she finds you sitting on the floor, holding your head in your hands. you gaze up at her sudden appearance, your dripping eyes making her figure look blurry.

“what’s wrong?” she asks, panicked. “are you hurt? did you burn yourself?”

“abby.” you groan through your tears.

the panic in her chest rises, she searches around you for any smears of blood or any massive spills in the kitchen, but finds nothing. “answer me.” she demands, prying your head out of your elbows. “what’s wrong?” she asks again.

you swat her away, squirming against her hold on your head. she pulls you close to her, her body temperature making you overheat more than you already are and the position adding to the ache in your back.

“abby. leave me alone.” you cry. doesn’t she know that she’s making it worse? the last thing you want is to have a conversation right now, the pounding headache almost making it impossible for you to speak. “i don’t wanna talk, please.” you moan, sniffling into your sleeves. “just put me back down.”

“tell me what happened first.” she demands, smirking like something’s funny.

you choke on a sob, damn her for being such an asshole. “i have a splitting headache, i’ve been standing up all day and it’s hurting my back, i’m overheating and standing in front of the oven isn’t helping, and i got sugar all over the place and now everything’s sticky.”

oh. well shit, now she feels bad for manhandling you and laughing at your dismay. but she doesn’t say anything back, instead scooping you up and carrying you to bed. “there are still cookies in the oven.” you complain, and she kisses you sweetly. “i’ll get ‘em.” she assures you.

and once she pulls the last tray out of the oven, she wipes down the kitchen and rinses out all of the bowls and measuring cups before grabbing you a glass of water and heading toward the bedroom. the sight of you sleeping soundly with both kittens curled around you makes her knees weak, and she can’t help but plant a few more kisses on your cheeks and whisper “i love you, i’m sorry for being a jerk.”

[hotshotsxyz]

this town is only gonna eat you

(buddie) (s8 spec) (1.1k) already wrote some buck-gets-hit-by-a-car spec, so how about some buck-gets-shot? kept thinking about "take eddie [to the laker's game] and die" and uh... here we are. cw: mass shooting/ gun violence (described vaguely), somewhat graphic description of a bullet wound, blood edit: now featuring a companion piece

Buck is smiling when it happens. Grinning at Eddie like he hung the fucking moon as he points out what must be the hundredth interesting play he’s seen on the court tonight. Buck’s smiling.

Eddie registers the screams before the gunfire. He smells the metallic scent of spent shell casings before he sees the shooter. He tackles Buck to the ground before he realizes he’s already hurt.

Buck was smiling, but now his face is inches from Eddie’s and his eyes are wide with pain and panic.

“Eds,” he says, and it’s barely above a whisper but it’s still too loud.

Eddie shakes his head, a tiny, sharp movement. Buck takes a shaky breath and presses his lips together. He understands. Eddie hates that he understands. Thank God he understands.

There’s something warm and wet slowly spreading between them, and it takes Eddie several wasted seconds to realize it’s blood. He’s almost completely certain it isn’t his, which—

God, that’s so much worse than if it was.

One of Eddie’s hands is still cradling Buck’s head, an instinctive act of protection before they hit the ground. With the other, Eddie slowly begins feeling his way around Buck’s abdomen. His fingers brush against torn fabric and he feels nauseous.

I’m sorry, he mouths before pressing down hard.

Buck gasps in pain. A muscle in his jaw ticks with the effort it must take him to keep from screaming.

“You’re doing so good,” Eddie breathes into Buck’s ear. “I’ve got you; I promise.”

The bullet caught him somewhere along the fifth intercostal space on the right side of his chest. Eddie doesn’t have a way to feel for an exit wound, not without letting up pressure on what he knows is there.

At best, the bullet glanced off a rib and tore through nothing but skin and muscle. At worst…

At worst, Buck is dying beneath him and there’s not a damn thing Eddie can do, not until the shooter is dead or gone. All Eddie can do is pray. Pray and hope like hell that God has forgiven him for his incomplete confession.

Another spray of gunfire echoes through the arena. It’s nearly impossible to identify where it’s coming from, but Eddie’s got a vague idea based on the direction people seem to be running in.

Buck takes a ragged, watery breath.

For the first time in his life, Eddie hopes he’s crying. He draws back, just far enough to look Buck in his eyes. His eyes, which are clouded over in pain but free from tears.

Fuck, fucking goddamn it.

Eddie presses his cheek against Buck’s.

“Slow, steady breaths, okay?” he whispers. “You have to breathe through it, even if it feels like you can’t.”

The tiniest whimper escapes Buck’s chest.

“You have to, Buck, I can’t—” Eddie squeezes his eyes shut and takes a shuddering breath. “I just need you to hold on,” he begs.

A single shot rings out, and nearby, something falls to the ground with a dull thump.

“Suspect is down!” someone shouts. “We’re clear for EMS.”

Eddie carefully extricates his hand from behind Buck’s head. “Hear that? We’re so close, Buck.” He brushes a thumb across his cheekbone, then sits up and raises his hand in the air. “Over here!” he shouts. “I’ve got a penetrating chest wound that needs to be on the first ambo out of here!”

Buck’s eyelashes flutter as he fights to stay conscious.

“Come on, eyes on me,” Eddie says.

With his free hand and his teeth, he tears a strip of fabric from his shirt to wad up and press into Buck’s wound.  The skin there is ragged and torn, almost certainly an exit wound. Eddie curses.

“I need EMS now!” Eddie roars, not tearing his eyes away from Buck for even a second.

“I’m coming to you!” someone calls back.

Buck’s eyes slip shut.

“No!” Eddie commands, rubbing his knuckles across Buck’s sternum. “You’re staying right here with me, you got it?”

Buck groans weakly. His eyes flick back open.

“That’s perfect, you’re perfect,” Eddie babbles. “Just keep—c’mon, Buck, just keep fighting. I need—you have to be okay.”

Buck’s lips part. “Hurt,” he breathes.

“I know,” Eddie says desperately, “I know it hurts, I’m sorry.”

A pained sound falls from Buck’s lips. He lifts one of his hands just high enough to ghost his fingers along the ruined hem of Eddie’s shirt.

Behind him, Eddie hears a gurney roll to a stop.

“Here!”

Eddie turns and find a young woman, no more than twenty years old, wearing a polo that declares her part of a private ambulance service. He doubts she’d weigh even a hundred pounds soaking wet.

“Alright,” he says, turning back to Buck. “I’m going to get you onto that gurney. Let me do all the work, okay?”

Buck’s eyes widen. He makes a strangled sound. “Hurt,” he coughs out again, fingers scrambling uselessly against the concrete floor of the arena.

“They’re gonna give you the good stuff at the hospital,” Eddie reassures. He lets go of Buck’s wound and pulls him into a seated position, then rolls him awkwardly onto his back. “I got you,” he says as he stands.

Eddie staggers beneath Buck’s weight but manages to get him down three rows worth of steps and onto the gurney without the young EMT’s help.

“We’re staged just outside the north entrance,” she says as she begins to push Buck toward a set of doors.

Eddie nods sharply. “He’s got a perforating chest wound, probable pulmonary laceration, and a history of pulmonary embolism. Allergic to naproxen,” he rattles off as he pushes the gurney alongside her.

“Um, okay, that’s—are you a doctor or something?” she asks.

“Firefighter,” Eddie corrects. “We both are.”

The closer they get to the exit, the harder Eddie has to work to keep pace with the EMT. He must be coming down hard as the adrenaline fades. A few spots cloud the corners of his visions. He blinks them away.

The doors to the outside fling open, revealing two paramedics from the 136.

“Diaz, is that you?” one of them asks.

The best Eddie can do is nod.

“Shit, and that’s—”

Eddie’s ears start to ring.

“Diaz, were you shot?”

No, he tries to say. One of the paramedics grabs him under the shoulders, and the other pushes his t-shirt up until—

Oh.

Huh.

He has been shot.

The paramedic in front of him is saying something, but Eddie can’t quite understand it. Over his shoulder, the EMT looks blurry and horrified.

The spots in his vision return with a vengeance, and in his last few moments of lucidity, it occurs to Eddie that the bullet in his abdomen is probably the same one that ripped through Buck’s chest.

Then, the world fades to black, and Eddie thinks nothing at all.  

[pinknipszz]

IT'S BUZZCUT SEASON, ANYWAY

⤷ gojo satoru, ryomen sukuna, and fushiguro toji

SATORU thought it was going to be a harmless prank. hair grows back after all.

well. he didn’t anticipate his “harmless prank” to cause this much emotional distress. 

“it’s so ugly!” you scream, hiding your tear-stained face in your hands in a desperate attempt to forget the horrific image of your sweet, sweet boyfriend and his white buzzcut. entirely dismissive of the fact that you’re in a public setting—a park, actually—satoru quickly scoops you up in his arms with consolation on his lips.

“it’s not that bad baby,” he swears. “it’ll grow back in a few weeks anyway.” you spiral at his words as images of that vile haircut flash in your mind. after putting you back on your feet, satoru tries to pull your hands away from your pretty face, but his efforts turn futile once he hears something along the lines of: “it is that bad!” 

it comes out as a hoarse, incoherent muffle, but he understands it nonetheless.

“i’ll wear a wig!” he blurts out desperately. "there's a shop down the street. we'll buy one right now." your shoulders stop shaking as you fall silent, and for a moment, satoru thinks he made the right choice of words. When you barrel into another fit of loud sobs, however, an unretrievable part of him chips away.

with a heavy heart, satoru sighs and holds you against his chest, cradling your head. he really fucked up this time. people throw him strange looks, but others—especially women—only sigh and shake their heads sympathetically at your anguish. no one can really blame you for reacting like this anyway. 

“SUKUNA,” you gasp in awe at the sight of him. 

you’re hardly seated yet, but the thin glass shield does little to spare him from the bewildered look on your face as you gawk at the short, neat buzz in place of his usual slick back. he feels his eye twitch.

when the officer coughs behind him, sukuna throws a mean look over his shoulder before ripping the telephone off the wall and holding it close to his ear. he only gets to hear your sweet voice once a month, and he’ll be damned if you waste it on his hair. “don’t ask about it,” he gruffs out. “tell me what you’ve been up to.”

you blink once—twice, even—before mirroring his actions and grabbing the prison’s janky telephone (having done this so many times, you don’t even wince when you touch some mysterious residue left by the previous visitor). you try to speak, your lips curling around the syllables of a word, but not a single sound escapes your throat. 

sukuna rolls his eyes at your loss for words. “come on. talk to me, doll.” his light tap against the glass earns him a warning that you don’t quite catch from the officer, but by the quiet string of curses that leaves the receiver, you guess it must have something to do with cutting his minutes. which you absolutely did not want.

“i think it fits you,” you say hurriedly. “you have a nice face, so the buzz works really well.” your delivery wasn’t the most elegant, and you might have even stuttered in between, but sukuna nearly groans when he hears you again. god he misses you. more than you miss his pretty pink hair.

TOJI thinks his life can’t get any worse—or at least that’s what he thought before getting into a car accident last week.

by the grace of god, toji survived with only a few minor injuries, but his hair, now full of a million tiny glass shards, wasn’t so lucky. once he realized that they were impossible to wash out, toji knew there was only one thing left to do.

a loud shriek echoes through the apartment. 

“toji—why are you bald?” you point an accusatory finger at your boyfriend of three years, standing in the middle of your bathroom with a towel around his waist. maybe under different circumstances, you’d be drooling over the delicious sight, but how could you possibly do that when his hair is so close to his scalp!

toji simply won’t stand for this slander. now don’t get him wrong. he loves you more than anything in the world, but the last thing any guy wants to hear is his name and the word “bald” in the same sentence. “i’m not bald goddamnit!” he barks back with equal ferocity. “it’s called a buzzcut. get it right, woman!”

the hilarity of the situation has you doubling over in laughter. there are tears ruining your mascara, but you don’t half the mind to care, and neither does he as tension melts away from his shoulders. toji chuckles and shakes his head at your desperate wheezes.

this interaction could’ve gone much, much worse.

(masterlist) | (a/n: i don't think anyone else in the series would get a buzz tbh)

[legend-the-dumb-jock]

I'd like to wish being transformed into a really dumb jock, and gross, but like, literal, so dumb i can't even say what 2 + 2 is, and i so gross i constantly belch and fart non-stop cause i think its manly and its funny, could you do it, pleasee?

You want to be dumbest thing walking on two legs. Thats all I read when I seen this. So that’s what we are going to do. People will look at you really question how something so dumb could even exist. As soon as your wish leaves you mouth instantly you tongue acts on it own hanging out of your mouth like a dog. You try to pull it back in but you can’t ! No matter what you do your tongue just seems to be too big you mouth and your jaw squares itself and drops. You look in the mirror shocked. You didn’t think didn’t think it would happen this fast but you can’t deny it. You look dumb. You start to burn up as your body begins to generate more heat than you’re used to and sweat begins to pour on your body. As that happens a puddle begins to form under you from all the sweat dripping off your body and your body begins to bulk with muscle. Your arms balloon out as your chest pumps up. Your abs pull your waist in and become tight forming an incredible 8 pack. Your face begins to itch as a beard starts to grow on your dumb face as your hair darkens. Your arms become hairy and your legs begin to bulk. Becoming swallowed in a furry mass as well. You back widens and you are overcomed with being lightheaded you have to sit down. Sitting in front of the mirror in your own puddle of sweat you can’t help but notice right arm and pec begin to get dark as a tattoos begins to streatch their way up your arms and across your chest. You look down and see a tattoo form on your right leg as your feet begin to swell. You notice that as your feet get bigger your tongue begins to push out more. Lower. DUMBER! Your pants begin to get tight as your package seems to be connect to your feet to. The bigger they become the larger your member becomes. Your feet stop ground at a sweaty size 17. Your body is massive now. Dripping sweat. Your veins are bulging from all the mass you’ve gained and your skin even has a tanned color to it.

But even though you look dumb. You said you wanted to be DUMB! Like the definition of full blown dumbass. And intense migraine moved across your head as you brain cramps. Losing the ridges that hold knowledge. Smoothing out as you become a literal dumbass. But I’m not cruel. I’ll leave you able to function. Unable to read. Unable to do anything other than lift weight and be a dumbass. You belch signifying lift off of your new dumbass life. Not even aware how stupid you are. I’m not even sure if you remember how to walk with how dumb I’ve made you but a muscle body like needs to crawl anyway. You’ll repeat simple sentences but anything complex you’ll have a glazed look pass over your dumb face. Instantly lost in all the confusion. Even yelling like a wild animal because of the dumbass you’ve become. You manage to stand up and stagger as your stupid brain tries to understand what you’re doing. A loud fart shoots out of your tight bulbous butt while another burp comes out. Still sweating and pumping out some serious Bo. You’re going to be a sweaty gas machine. To dumb to do anything and impossible to learn anything. Enjoy the new life you big dumbass.

[revelboo]

Part two of yandere wheeljack x human? Thx’s I am very intrigued :)

Crooked Ways

Wheeljack x Reader- yandere pt 2

How long does it take a human to do whatever it is you’re doing? Bracing a hand on the concrete, Wheeljack leans down so that he can see under the awning and into the burned out ruin of the gas station. There you are, coming out of the back, hair wet and dappled by the sunlight darting through the holes in the roof. Whatever tension had begun to ease on spotting you just cranks right back up when you startle, then scowl at him.

You’d tried to hide inside the gas station the first time he’d carried you there as a treat. Unable to get into the back room, you’d wedged yourself into a corner furthest from the entrance. And refused to come out like a spoiled, little sparkling.

You’d come running when he’d started tearing down the wall to make a hole big enough to get his arm through, though. No doubt you’d run if given half a chance. He suspects that’s what you’re up to now- searching for a way out the other side of the building.

So, what, you can run off into the desert? You can’t outrun him and you both know it. That doesn’t stop the flush of anger. “Done?” He demands, shifting a bit so he can toy with the broken ruin of the front of the building, the crack of breaking glass loud. A warning.

Your chin lifts in defiance and he almost hopes you’ll refuse to come out in a doomed show of contrariness. But no, you pick your way through the rubble to step out in the sun, eyes squinting up at him as his armor catches the sun and dazzles you momentarily.

Apparently you’re giving him the silent treatment today, because you know it bothers him. Because he craves the sound of your voice the same way he needs you close by. Servos flexing, he eases back to kneel then fall forward into his alt mode. Driver side door popping open, he gives it a little wave when you tense. If you’re considering running, you decide against it and go around to slump inside him.

It’s not just your hair that’s wet. You’ve washed in the sink in the back, the antiseptic stink of the soap as irritating as how damp you and your clothes are in his interior, because why bother drying off if you know it irritates him when you get in soaking wet?

“You’re wet. I’ve told you not to do that,” he growls, feeling your hands dig into his seat. “Remember?”

“I’ve told you that I don’t like being dirty.” You growl right back, turning your head to look out the window. Ignoring him as best you can. Impossible when he’s all around you.

“You think I like this any more than you do?”

“Then just let me go,” you snap, glaring at his dash as his engine snarls, alt mode shuddering around you.

“You know better,” he says, not at all surprised when you twist onto your side in an awkward huddle, legs drawn up and facing the window. Angry with him again. Always angry. “I take care of you. Feed you.”

“You kidnapped me.” The words are a sullen whisper, but he hears them. “Keep me trapped.”

Can’t deny those words, either. He wonders briefly what the other Autobots would think of him. They wouldn’t understand his obsession with you. He didn’t understand it. Didn’t know why he needed you nearby from the moment he’d first found you. There’s been no plan, he’d just taken you. Hadn’t been able to stop himself, because he couldn’t understand the urge driving him.

Like how even if you hate him, everything feels right in his world when you’re near him. Previous

[seravphs]

ੈ♡˳·˖✶ — GUARDIAN ANGEL! GOJO x FEM READER 

Kneeling by your bed, rosary wrapped around your knuckles, lips pressed to the burnished rosewood, you pray. 

God, please send me another guardian angel. 

A blast of static from the TV behind you. 

The one you sent me- 

“Hey, how does the thing work?” Gojo says, accompanied by loud thumps. You cringe in silence. 

He’s strange. 

wc — 3.7k

tags — religion, Gojo has to reckon with the consequences of being the strongest, domesticity, attempted (failed) mugging/attack, Gojo kills a man for you (non graphic), Shoko’s a good friend, bs angel lore, I think of this like a prequel to reader’s villain arc lol,  title from closer by nine inch nails 

You wake up to a man standing over your bed. Understandably, you scramble backwards, hands over knees over legs over feet, all your limbs tangled together, until you bump into your headboard. 

“Hi!” He says cheerily. “Wow, haven’t gotten that reaction in a while, not since- Anyways. I’m Gojo Satoru, your guardian angel. Please make breakfast, it’s 12 pm already and I’m starving. Your sleep habits are terrible.” 

You shake, terrified. Nothing he said has gone through your brain.

“Um, hello? Deep breaths now. It’s really not that serious, can you stop that? Hellooooo,” he’s snapping his fingers in front of your face, trying to get through to you. 

You panic and bat his hand away, but if you can touch him, that means he’s real. You’re not dreaming. There’s a strange man in your house calling himself your guardian angel. You try to pull yourself together enough to make a coherent sentence. What comes out is: 

“Um. Guardian angel. What?” 

“You don’t believe me,” he says. 

You’ve heard it can be dangerous for people suffering from delusions to be forcefully brought out of their dreams. “No,” you say carefully. “I’m sure this is all a big understanding.” 

“No, that’s okay,” he laughs. “I love getting to do this.” 

Massive wings unfurl from his back. It’s a strange sight. The air seems to ripple around them, iridescent ebbs and flows of the universe to make space for the impossible. They seem to sprout right out of his shoulder blades. 

It’s undeniable, irrefutable proof. Your brain can’t process this. It goes back to sleep. 

You wake up to the smell of bacon burning in the kitchen. 

Gojo hums as he cooks, his wings out. You’re almost worried they’ll get caught in the flames when suddenly you have something much more real to worry about. 

“Ow!” He’s about to stick his finger into his mouth when you intervene, scolding him without even thinking about it. 

“That’s dangerous! Don’t put your hands in your mouth, especially not if you’ve been cooking. Come here,” you tug him over to run his hands under the faucet. 

“Who's the guardian angel again?” He teases, amused. 

You answer him with another question. “Why are you cooking, anyways?” 

“You’re starving me! It’s so late and you haven’t made breakfast yet - you know I could report you to the authorities for angel abuse, right?” 

Somehow, you don’t believe him. There may very well be a division in heaven’s bureaucracy dedicated to looking after angels, but something about Gojo is just on the edge of unbelievable, like if you blink too hard, it might disappear without a trace. It’s the wings, probably. 

You’re good at compartmentalizing, so you ignore all of the normal reactions someone would have to an angel randomly appearing in your apartment to instead make breakfast. Gojo already burned your favorite pan, so you stick it in the sink to soak while you rummage around for your second best set. Then you check the fridge. You’re out of butter and eggs. There are just two pieces of bacon left. Is it presumptuous to ask your angel to run errands with you? 

You poke your head out of the fridge to look at Gojo, staring remorsefully at the burnt remains of his once-was-an-egg. He’s nursing the cut on his finger. 

“Do you want to go grocery shopping?”

He smiles at you, slow and syrupy and- 

He can’t do that. He’s beautiful as it is, as if God took extra time crafting him. Smiling only makes his beauty all the more painful, tugging at the strings of your heart. His snow white hair curls against the nape of his neck, a ruthlessly cute detail you notice when he tilts his head at you. 

“I would love to. What’s grocery shopping?” 

Introducing Gojo to the modern world is an exercise in both patience and childish wonder. There’s so much he doesn’t know. He tells you the last time he’s been on Earth was somewhere back in the 90’s.

“Like 1990? That’s pretty recent,” you remark. 

“Like 90 CE.” 

He’s delighted by everything, even the simplest of snacks, and begs you to add them to your cart. Ramune impresses him to no end. He’s enthralled by the taste of ice cream after the nice worker gives him a sample. You might really be reported to the Bureau of Angel Abuse at this point - all he’s interested in is junk food. It takes a while to finally wrangle him away from everything. In a way, it’s your fault because you hesitate to refuse an angel anything, and Gojo wants it all. You only manage to get him to agree to go home once you’ve tired him out. 

There was a sense of reverence, at first. 

There’s an angel living in your home. It’s hard to imagine getting used to that. Walking into the bathroom to the sight of Gojo brushing his teeth shirtless, his wings out, is a sight that will never get old. He manages to transform even the mundane into the divine. The sunlight strikes his hair at just the right angle to glow, giving him a faux-halo. 

“Good morning,” he smiles. “I think I used up all your toothpaste.” 

By day seven, you’ve wised up to Gojo’s tactics. If you don’t say no to anything, he’ll steamroll right over you, so you have to grow a backbone. 

“Oh, Christ? Yeah, we’re old pals. We go wayyyyy back.” 

“Please be quiet while I’m trying to pray.” 

“We’re in the same therapy group, actually. He texts me all the time for advice-“ 

“Gojo. Shut. Up.” 

He’s silent for all of a minute before he pipes up again. “I don’t think capital G up there would appreciate that.” 

You have never missed a day of prayer in your life. No temptation has been able to sway you from your duties. Hunger, thirst, and pain all were swept away in the face of your faith. Were you seriously about to start now, being annoyed to death by a particularly useless angel? 

The best solution to Gojo is always to ignore him. He needs attention like flowers need water. 

Without it, he stalks off to sulk. 

It’s night by the time he returns. He’s flying, which you usually don’t allow him to do, but you’ve driven out to a more remote, private church to pray. It’s owned by an old family friend, who handed you the keys without question. Half of this is for you, to experience god in the sanctity of nature, and half is for Gojo. You hate seeing him cooped up. Part of you feels like you’ve chained him down. You’re a trap in the form of a human, made to keep him grounded. 

He touches down next to you, hair slicked to his forehead in sweat. When he stretches his arms, his wings move simultaneously. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him look more alive. He loves nothing like he loves flying, and you’re inclined to agree. 

Maybe you’ll let him take you for another ride tonight. You love the feeling of the wind against your face, the sight of the landscape beneath you when he takes you up, the feeling in your stomach when he tucks his wings in and free-falls for fun. You’re not scared. Gojo would never let anything happen to you. 

You might ask, later. Now, you send him off to the car ahead of you while you lock up. He’s cheerful as he heads off, whistling merrily. You’re glad flying has improved his mood. It’s equally painful for you whenever he’s upset with you. Perhaps it's simply a side effect of being a guardian angel .

The key is in the door when you feel the first hint of danger. 

“All the money in your pockets, ma’am.” 

Polite, for a thief. 

“You’re not from around these parts.” He says as you spin around. “Should’ve known better than to go wandering around these woods alone. Whatever happens next is on you, sweetheart. If only you’d been a little more careful.” 

He has a knife. 

“What do you want? Money? You can have it.” It doesn’t matter much to you. As long as he leaves before Gojo comes back. 

“Sometimes, ma’am, men don’t want anything but a thrill.” 

Then he lunges at you, presses you against the wall, and pins you with a knife to your throat. 

“Don’t scream now. No one would hear you anyways.”

He’s wrong about that part. 

You hear him coming up the path before you see him. 

“What’s taking you so long?” Gojo whines. “I wanna go home and watch Love Island already-oh.” 

“Run!” Gojo might be an angel, but you’ve seen him cut himself making toast. He can bleed like any other man, gold ichor, yes, but blood still. You don’t want to see him hurt. 

Instead, he sizes up your assailant, unfurls those beautiful wings - they always take your breath away - and in one swift move, simply tears you from his grasp. It’s faster than you can blink. 

The man makes a muffled sound of fear and shock as Gojo seems to blink back into existence. You know he’s only moving too fast for your brains to comprehend. 

“Stay here,” he deposits you on the grass behind him. It’s scorched, burned black from the temperature of his wings. 

He turns up the heat. You didn’t think it was possible, but he was clearly holding back. The air seems to melt around him, heat waves shimmering off his skin, his white feathers. They glow with an otherworldly light, radiating heat. 

You didn’t know true glory until this moment, and it frightens you. All other versions of blue fade in favor of Gojo’s eyes - a single, unyielding truth. He is a piece of heaven on earth, burning up. His anger is righteous. Holy. His true nature melts away his human appearance. 

He’s a seraph, one of the highest order of angels.  

You’ve never seen him fight before, don’t know how he gets his weapons or where he puts them. It just appears out of thin air. He carries a flaming sword in one hand, its pommel is white marble, its blade glass. Contrary to common belief, his voice doesn’t boom. In fact it’s all the more threatening because it is soft, a whisper so clearly heard it defies the laws of the world just because it can. 

He raises the sword like an executioner and judge all in one. 

You barely have time to close your eyes in horror when you realize what he’s about to do. 

Real angels are not like the watered down, commercialized ones you can find today in any young adult TV show. Real angels are bloody. Real angels are the hand of God, ruthless and violent.

Real angels have no mercy. 

You open your eyes again when you feel the now familiar heat on your skin. 

He’s standing before you, beaming. It’s clear he expects praise. In heaven, it might’ve been given to him. 

You can only stare at him in fear, not awe.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” He steps closer, his burning wings flapping. “It’s okay. I got rid of him. You’re safe now.” 

You’re ashamed a split second after it happens because it’s so pathetic, but you can’t help it. Your animal instincts react instinctively to the threat, sending you skittering back on your palms and ass away from him. 

He freezes. His wings remain moving. Perhaps, like a shark and its gills, he simply can’t stop. 

“You’re afraid of me,” he says, stunned. “Why are you afraid of me?” 

The heat from his wings is baking your face. You’re afraid if you speak, your skin will crack. Still, Gojo shows no signs of leaving you alone. If anything, he’s about to get closer. 

“Stop,” you squeak. You throw out your hands in front of you like the world’s most useless shield. Your eyes are watering from looking into his radiance. 

Helpless, Gojo does something he hasn’t done since he was just a newborn angel. 

He asks for help. 

Shoko Ieri looks nothing like him, so that answers one question you’ve always had. Gojo tells you she’s another angel, although you don’t see her wings past the first minute you’ve met. After Gojo summons her to the scene and she catches the way you look at him, she keeps them carefully folded in. 

She helps you into the passenger seat when you can’t make your legs move to walk back to your car. You won’t let Gojo touch you, feeling torn at the look on his face when you flinch back from him. 

He’s sitting on a stool at the island while Shoko checks you over for injuries in the kitchen. There’s no major damage, just the after effects of shock and adrenaline working through your system. 

“You know I’d never hurt you, right?” He says, hurt and confused. 

“You fucking idiot. You colossal blockhead. You-“ Shoko pauses, not because she’s run out of things to say, but because she has too many. “It’s not about you, right now, okay? I know it’s hard for you to get your head out of your ass, but can you at least try to be supportive?” 

Gojo makes a noise like he wants to protest, but you shift your weight and that draws his attention back to you. The look on your face makes him fall silent.

Shoko leaves after she’s completed her examination, though she doesn’t leave you helpless. 

“Do you want to come with me?” She says, carefully. “I understand if you don’t want to be left alone with him right now.” 

You shake your head. 

“Listen, I know Gojo scared you. I’m sorry. He shouldn’t have. He’s always been too reckless - ugh. The stories I could tell you. But I promise you, he will never hurt you - not just because he cares about you, but because he’s literally not allowed to. He’s your guardian angel.” 

“I know,” you say, and that’s the end of that. 

There’s an uncomfortable silence after Shoko leaves. You’re not sure how to navigate the once easy relationship between you and Gojo now. Always unable to keep still, he breaks the silence first. 

“Do you want to talk about it now?” He says softly. Everything about him is dulled, even the gleam of his brilliant hair. He’s back within his human skin, even more modestly than before, as if he has taken care to seal up every crack that his true nature could spill out of. 

You choose your first question carefully. “Why has the lord sent a seraph to watch over me?” 

Seraphs are the highest level of the hierarchy of angels. They maintain the order of the world, fulfilling God’s will. For one to have come to you- 

True horror is sinking in. You love your saints. You worship them devoutly, knowing each story by heart. You could trace a path through the church library of all the books you’ve read on them, giving the history of each spine. 

You do not want to be one of your saints. 

Joan of Arc died at 19. Saint Agatha was canonized for being tortured violently.

By sending you such a strong protector, your lord may be condemning you to die young, but that’s not why you cry. You cry because you are too weak to fulfill his command. 

Life is sweet. You don’t want to give up the taste of tart oranges on your tongue, the feeling of the babbling creek over your feet, the songs of the birds in the morning. You don’t want to give up Gojo’s wake up calls, or the feeling of flying. 

All these selfish, worldly pleasures should mean nothing to you when faced with the lord’s call, and yet- 

You resent it still. 

You’re so confused by it all. Why were you given such a burden and told nothing about it? What does any of it mean? 

“I don’t know. I’m sorry. We don’t get told anything but who we were assigned to.” 

“Okay,” you say. 

“That’s it? Okay? I scare the shit out of you, and all you have to say is okay?” 

“Gojo, I don’t want to fight anymore. Let me just go to bed, please.” 

You’re woken up not by the light of Gojo’s halo, as you’ve gotten used to when he comes to your room demanding breakfast, but by the sun. The curtains are open, and sunbeams stream in over your pillow. 

Gojo is in the kitchen making - not burning - breakfast. He doesn’t turn when you pad into the kitchen on slippered feet, but you know he knows you’re there. You’re feeling much better. Sleep has refreshed you from the major shock to your system last night, and now you feel almost half bad for your reaction to him. He only wanted to help you, after all. 

It’s not his fault he’s strong. At the end of the day, he’s just another gear in the universe, like you. Neither of you are important enough to be privy to the greater, divine plan, not even a seraph. You shouldn’t have snapped at him. You’re in this together. 

You stand on tiptoe behind him to peer over his shoulder into the pan. 

“I’m making you breakfast,” he says. Is it just you, or does he seem almost shy? 

What an impact you’ve had on him. Your heart breaks. You’ve only known him to be bold and uncaring of human customs like politeness. You didn’t think it would upset you to see him learn manners, and yet- 

It’s a consequence of your rejection last night, as if he’s worried you’ll pull away again. This isn’t what you wanted, ever. 

“We should talk,” you say. 

“Yeah. We should.” He still won’t turn around, avoiding eye contact. 

Before you can speak, he blurts out, “ Do you not want me to be your angel anymore?”

“Of course not,” you say, reaching out for him. He’s hesitant to let you pull him closer, take his hands in yours. “Gojo, why would you think that?” 

“You’re scared of me,” he says, almost petulantly, like a sulking child. “You don’t like me anymore.” 

“Gojo,” you can think of nothing to say but his name. Sweet Gojo. Selfish Gojo. Gojo, who you’ve gotten used to having around. Gojo, who has infiltrated your life and now thinks to leave like you can kick him out like that. Like you would. Gojo, who you’re fond of in a way you can’t articulate, despite the way he takes and takes from you. Gojo, who you’re willing to keep, despite everything. 

Gojo, who you care about, enough to want him to stay. 

Gojo, who cares about you, enough to want to leave. 

He takes this like a rebuff and wrenches his hands out of yours. 

You grab his face and forcefully drag his attention back to you. His eyes are wild like a trapped animal, but there’s no sign of fire. He’s carefully dampened any kind of godliness in him.

“Oh, Gojo. Please don’t. I want you with me, I promise. I would never ask you to leave.”

“You don’t have to,” he says grimly. A soldier to the end. He knows how to do the hard things. Sometimes, you have to cut the rot out before the wound festers. 

“I am scared of you - please don’t make that face. You’re breaking my heart.”

“Your heart? What about mine?” He bristles. 

“I trust you. Let me prove it. Take your wings out again. Show me your true self.” 

“After seeing how you reacted?” He scoffs, turning defensive. You’ve exhausted his goodness, and now his emotions are getting the better of him, making the situation ugly. But you knew this would happen. 

You know him. 

And you know how to deal with him. 

“Come on,” you say.  “Think of it like exposure therapy.” 

“I don’t want to see you look at me like that again,” he admits.

“I know you won’t hurt me,” you say. “Please. Do you trust me?” 

He ends up on the ground cross legged, his wings spread, back to you. His wings are fiery, but carefully controlled. He won’t burn you. 

You start small, running your hands all over his wings. They rustle underneath your touch like startled animals. When you tug gently at the ends, extending them to their full length, you realize how monstrous his wingspan truly is. From tip to tip, they’re larger than a grown man is tall. Your fingers creep along the thin ridge of his radius, deceptively thin beneath your fingers. If you didn’t know better, it would snap easily with just the barest hint of pressure. 

He makes a small noise. You jerk back, worried you’ve actually bent the bone, but he’s fine. He pushes his wings back under your hands like a puppy seeking attention. 

From the radius, you trail along the top edge to his metacarpus, then down to his feathers, all the way back to his scapula. From there, it’s only a few inches over to his actual shoulder blades. He shudders when you touch him there, your fingertips lightly grazing over the bone. You press down gently. His muscles flex under your skin, tense and wound up. 

You realize that he's been suspiciously quiet for a while. He’s too still, as if he’s purposely holding himself in place. Have you hurt him without knowing? Would he tell you if you had?

“Gojo?” You pull your hands away from his wings and he shudders as if he’s been burned. “Look at me.” 

He won’t turn, so you grab him by the chin and force his head up so you can look him in the face. Even down on the floor like this, he’s tall. His face is pink, his eyes wide like he’s been stunned. He looks almost like he’s in pain.

“What’s wrong? Why didn’t you say anything? Does it hurt?” You fret over him. 

“Doesn’t,” he says hoarsely. “Feels too good.” 

You freeze. It’s this sight of an angel in all his celestial grace wrecked by your touch, brought down by just the brush of your fingers, that makes you realize it. 

It feels good to have an angel at your feet. 

[rainba]

Erased

TWs/Tags: yandere, violence, spoilers for Sumeru + angst

-------------------------------------------------------

He’s got you right where he wants you- your throat within his grip. He’s cackling maniacally with a freakish grin plastered on his face, but there’s also tears pouring out of his eyes. He looks like a beautiful, broken porcelain doll.

Under the cover of darkness, he chased you, grabbed you, and trapped you in the cage of his arms.

The way the moonlight illuminates your beautiful face drives him to insanity.

“I know you’ve forgotten me, you- you don’t know who I am at all… But…” He grits his teeth and sneers. “Tell me, what’s my name!? Say it!” He strangles you in a fit of sheer desperation, but you can’t choke out a single word. Even if you were capable of speaking, you wouldn’t know what to say. What are you supposed to say? 

This stranger is scaring you.

His grip loosens when he sees your face changing colors. As you gasp for air, you scream. “Let go of me, freak!” You kick and squirm as harshly as you can. If you don’t escape him now, there’s no telling what he’ll do to you. When you shriek those words, they tear away at him, shredding into him like razor blades. If he had a heart, it would be bleeding. 

He doesn’t move for a second. He just stares with shaking eyes.

Scaramouche did this to himself, he knows that very well… So why?

Why does this hurt so fucking bad?

Before he erased his past from this world, the two of you were attached at the hip. It was utterly strange. Scaramouche hated humans to his core, but he had made an exception for you. You were just so different. You loved him deeply- you had once accepted him. He would bark insults at you, but you always bite back. And he loved that about you. It was always a playful game to see who would win, even though it always ended with Scaramouche coming out on top due to his unbearable stubbornness. After all, you’re just a human, and he’s so much more.

Yet he despised how much he missed you.

And he loathed how much he craves your love.

He misses the way you would run your fingers through his dark purple hair. He misses the way you would kiss his nose and steal his hat to wear it, even though it always annoyed him. What he once thought were inconveniences turned out to be his favorite parts of life. He hated you, but he loved you too, and he could never understand it. He also would never say any of it out loud.

In the past, he never told you that he loved you, but somehow it was like you knew anyway. He constantly called you stupid, but he was always lying through his teeth.

But now… Now you stare at him with terrified eyes as you scratch and kick at him. It’s so painful, it hurts so bad, and because of that he continues to sob. He’s never cried like this before… He feels fucking pathetic. He shouldn’t be feeling this way. How is it even possible for him to feel this way? How did he let himself get so attached? He just wants it to stop.

He wants it all to go away.

He just wants you to– no, needs you to remember him, even though he knows it's impossible.

The fact that he did this to himself without thinking twice is what makes everything much more frustrating.

Does he regret erasing himself from irminsul? No, he doesn’t. But… Still…

His mind goes numb as his hands tighten around your throat a little more. At this point, you’re shaking like a leaf, worried that you won’t make it out alive. “I’m not a freak, you lowly human.” He seethes and instinctively hurls back an insult. Scaramouche hardly cares about what others think of him, but hearing you call him such a thing with genuine malice bothers him.

Meanwhile, all you can do is think about how to escape. You’ve never met this man before a day in your life… Why is he doing this? You wonder if he’s mistaking you for someone else. Perhaps he’s going through a psychotic episode. You try to reason out the situation, but there’s really no point. Your heart is beating so fast that it might just burst. 

“S…Sc… Sca… Scar…” You murmur out fragments of a word, and Scaramouche’s eyes widen. Scar? Are you going to say ‘Scaramouche’? Without thinking, he lets go of you and lifts himself up a little, giving you ample opportunity to escape his clutches. You shoot your leg up and knee him as hard as you can before crawling away. “Scared…” You finish your word. 

“I’m scared… Please, just leave me alone!”

Tears start streaming down your face, and that makes two of you. Scaramouche is too stunned to move as he watches you run the other way. When he realizes that you’re no longer in his grasp, he freaks out. “Get back here!”

It can’t end like this…

No, it absolutely can’t.

He won’t let it.

He’ll hunt you down to the edges of this earth. He’ll grab you, cage you, embrace you until the warmth of his presence is the only reason why you live and breathe. Scaramouche jumps to his feet and begins to chase you.

Your feet burn as you race across the grassy forest of Sumeru, desperate to escape with your life. You jump over roots, dodge stray rocks, and dash through little streams of water. Your breathing grows so heavy that your lungs burn, and your head begins to spin. You run for what feels like hours, and unwillingly, you collapse onto your knees. 

You clutch at your chest and cough. Everything burns so badly… 

Everything hurts… Why does everything hurt?

But at least you’re free now.

Or so you thought.

“Did you really think you could run away from me?”

A violent voice rang out from the darkness. Before you could even react, you were pinned down to the ground again. It was futile- so utterly futile to think you can escape him. You’re so dizzy that you can’t make out the words that he’s saying. He’s yelling something- you can tell from the way his mouth is moving. All you can make out is the word ‘remember.’ 

But you stop looking at him- opting to look at the stars instead. They’re so beautiful… So far away.

Scaramouche notices the way you’re dissociating and backhands you. He brings you back down to earth. “Are you ignoring me?” His anger boils into pure rage. The past you would never ignore him… The past you would never dare to run away from him. 

Scaramouche shakes your shoulders as he yells more obscenities at you.

He’s shaking you so harshly that your head hits the ground multiple times.

He shakes you so hard that your skull collides with a stone beneath your head.

When he sees blood, his eyes widen.

“W-wait,” his breath hitches. “I didn’t mean to do that.” His voice comes out barely above a whisper as he watches you black out from beneath him.

“(Y/n)?” He calls out.

“(Y/n), wake up.”

He shakes you just a little more, careful to not hurt you this time.

“I order you to wake up!” He uses one hand to grab your face tightly, trying to get you to react, but you don’t.

Scaramouche panics before placing his ear against your chest, searching for a pulse. When he hears the soft beating, he can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief. All he does then is hold you close to him, refusing to let go. You’re just as warm as ever… So, so soft. He’s trembling like a leaf.

He can’t help but think that this is so unlike him.

When you’re around, it’s like he becomes an entirely different person.

He closes his eyes and buries his face in your neck while breathing in your scent. Even though he erased himself from this world, you remain mostly unchanged. 

All he wants is you.

Scaramouche doesn’t care that you hate him right now. Yes, it stings, but he’ll get you to love him again… You don’t have a choice. He’ll spend day and night getting you to fall for him. It’ll be just like before. You’ll smile at him, whisper sweet nothings into his ear again, and tease him until he gets red in the face. Just like usual. 

God, he fucking hates how you make him feel.

But he needs it so badly.

As he rises to his feet, he holds you gently in his arms, taking special care of your head. Your blood drips onto his arms, but it doesn’t bother him. He’ll get you patched up and healed in no time. Then he’ll keep you by his side… Forever… Just like before. 

You’re not allowed to forget about him.

You’re not allowed to live a life without him.

You belong to him…

And he belongs to you.

[johaerys-writes]

Snippet Sunday

@rowanisawriter tagged me earlier this week for a WIP Wednesday but I had nothing to share, so I'm sharing a snippet today instead 😊 I've been working on a flashback which takes place at that fateful New Year's Eve party Antilochus mentions in chapter 2 of baby born blue, not sure if I'll include all of it in the next chapter but this is a small bit of it:

Patroclus is halfway down the stairs when he bumps into Briseis. 

“Where were you?” she demands hotly, her voice just loud enough to be heard over the music. “I’ve been looking all over for you!”

“Oh—sorry, I was just—” Patroclus stumbles over his own words. His face is hot, and he realises he actually never even bothered to come up with a believable excuse should he walk into someone he knows. “I’m tired,” he says finally. “I’m heading home.”

“Really.” Briseis quirks her brow, unconvinced. “And where is Achilles?”

“He’s…” Patroclus swallows thickly. “He—I don’t know, still at the party, probably.”

“You don’t know.” Briseis shakes her head and crosses her arms before her chest. “You’re leaving with him, aren’t you?”

“Brie…" Patroclus starts pleadingly, but doesn’t know how to finish the sentence. It’s not the first time they’ve had this conversation. Just before this party she had made him promise that they’d be leaving together, whether Achilles was there or not. The promise didn’t even cross his mind before Patroclus broke it.

“How many more times are you going to do this to yourself?” Briseis asks when Patroclus doesn’t reply. “For months I’ve watched you pick up your pieces after he left. And now at a wiggle of Achilles’ fingers you’re crawling back to him without a second thought?”

He hates the hopeless, disappointed look she gives him, and he hates himself for giving into all of this once more. But he just can’t help it. The pull is too strong, impossible to fight. No one else could understand it, because no one else shares a bond like he and Achilles do.

 “We won’t do anything,” he lies, only to placate her. “We’ll just talk things over.”

"In the middle of the night? And after everything Achilles has downed?” 

“I just— I need to do this, Brie,” Patroclus says, as if that’s enough to explain any of it. “It’s been a while, and—things might be different this time. He deserves a chance, at least. We both do.”

“Oh, Pat.” She shakes her head again. “Are you lying to me or to yourself?” 

Patroclus just gazes at her helplessly. He doesn’t know what else to say. Briseis sighs. “Did you tell Iphis at least? She probably still thinks you’re on that ‘date’.” 

Patroclus winces slightly at the reminder. Briseis had brought Iphis as his plus one for the party, but he barely managed to spend half an hour with her before Achilles arrived and practically pounced on him. After months of interacting with him only through text messages and video calls, whenever they both had time, having all of Achilles' attention on him all at once was intoxicating, headier than the strongest drug. He could try looking for Iphis now, but the villa is huge and she could be anywhere, and he also hates to leave Achilles alone when he’s in that state.  

He feels like the worst, most selfish person in the world when he asks Briseis, “Can you make up an excuse? Just tell her I got sick or something.” 

Briseis glares at him. “I’m not lying for you again. I’ll tell her the truth: that you left with Achilles to—”

“To take him home, because he got sick. Or something. Please. I’ll owe you.” 

Briseis glares at him for a moment longer, then she shakes her head dejectedly again. “Fine. But I’m doing it for her sake, not yours. She deserves some kind of an explanation.”

“Thanks, Brie, you’re the best,” Patroclus tells her over his shoulder, already hopping down the stairs. 

“Pat.” 

He stops and turns to look at her. She lets out a deep breath, her features growing hard. 

“When you’re with him, you become just like him.” 

The words are like a punch in the gut. Patroclus just stares stupidly at her, until she turns around and walks back to the party.

Tagging forth to @baejax-the-great @in-arlathan @tragediegh @reprrise @hekateinhell @starlightvld @maxdurden @vimlos @darlingpoppet @babyrdie and anyone else who might want to share a little WIP!

[livesincerely]

on my hands and knees for a take a shot snippet 😭 i just know this fight is gonna take me out

Ask and you shall receive! But brace yourself

00000

“Jackie, stop,” Davey says, his voice shaking. “I know you wouldn’t, it ain’t like that—“

“Then what’s it like, Dave?” And now Jack can feel his own eyes starting to sting, a lump forming in his throat. “Explain it to me. Because I don’t understand.”

Davey’s mouth parts, his features drawn and pale.

“I… I can’t,” he breathes, the refusal nothing but a sigh on the wind.

“…You can’t,” Jack repeats quietly, and he feels something crack and crumble, deep inside. “You can’t? Wha⁠— What the fuck am I supposed to do with that, Dave? Huh?!” His voice breaks as it all comes pouring out of him, a geyser of feeling that’s finally erupted. “Am I supposed’ta jus’ sit around with my thumb up my ass, waitin’ for you decide I’m good enough to talk to again?”

“Jack⁠—”

“‘Cause that’s the thing, ain’t it, Dave? Jack spits. “It’s not that you can’t explain it⁠⁠—Race and the rest of ‘em, they all know damn well what the fuck’s goin’ on with you, don’t they? It’s that you won’t explain it to me. Not even when I’m down on bended knee, worried outta my skull, beggin’ ya to let me in.”

And then, because he couldn’t keep in even if he tried: “Why can’t you trust me anymore?”

Davey makes a noise in the back of his throat, low and wounded. 

“Jack, I⁠— It’s not that simple⁠,” he says, his eyes wet and pleading, and the fact that even now, Jack can’t hardly stand to see him cry, is infuriating.

“Seems pretty fuckin’ simple from where I’m sittin’,” Jack says, forcibly hardening his heart. “If you don’t want me around anymore, then that’s⁠— that’s fine. You ain’t the first an’ you won’t be the last. But I thought you’d at least have the decency to say it to my fuckin’ face instead of draggin’ it out like this.”

He shoves himself to his feet, his arms and legs trembling faintly. “Message received, okay?” he says with a bitter scoff. “Loud an’ clear.”

“Jackie, wait!” Davey’s fingers clutch at his forearm, his hands clammy and frantic. “You don’t⁠— It’s not that I don’t want to tell you⁠—”

“Then tell me!” Jack shouts as he whirls back around. “For fuck’s sake, Dave, you’re acting like I broke your heart!”

And Davey looks absolutely gutted⁠—cracked open, exposed, and raw—and he staggers back a half step, dropping Jack’s arm like he’s been punched in the gut.

Jack stops dead in his tracks. The frustration that had been swirling inside him, the churning froth that threatened to capsize everything in its wake, flickers and dies like a candle being snuffed out. Icy cold seeps through every crack and crevice of him, down into his lungs and out through his veins, freezing him right to the bone.

Silence. Gaping and unfathomable. Then:

“I think you should go,” Davey whispers. 

Jack’s throat clicks, the chamber jammed. 

“…Dave,” he starts, hushed, hardly daring to breathe, suddenly and impossibly aware of just how brittle the space between them has become. “Davey, did I break your heart?” he asks.

Davey swallows so hard it looks painful, like he’d rather choke it all down than let another word escape. “Please go.”

“Are you in love with me?”

“Jack,” Davey says, his voice utterly shattered. “Stop it.”

But Jack can’t. He doesn’t know how.

[anonymousewrites]

One Hell of a Love (Book 1) Chapter Seven

Sebastian Michaelis x Demon! Reader

Chapter Seven: One Hell of a Reaper

Summary: (Y/N) and Sebastian fight a Reaper.

            Grell slashed at (Y/N) and Sebastian wildly as they dodged and flipped around to avoid her attack. “Two demons and a reaper!” said Grell gleefully. “Ah, I wonder if it really is impossible for us to understand each other.” She leapt into the air after (Y/N) as they dodged onto the roofs. “What a Shakespearian tragedy! Two loves that cannot be! Ah, (Nickname)! Wherefore art thou (Nickname) and Bassy?!” She pushed off and wall and drew close to (Y/N).

            Sebastian jumped into the air and kicked between Grell and (Y/N) to force Grell to flip to another roof and move away from (Y/N). The two demons regarded her carefully as she continued her laments and flirtations.

            “If you were to throw away the name given by your masters and only look at me…perhaps we could be meant to be!” cried Grell dramatically.

            “You’re too loud. Like a puppy dog,” said (Y/N). They narrowed their eyes. “I don’t like dogs.”

            Sebastian smirked at their words as Grell gasped in offense. She deserved it for being such a nuisance. “I will say just one thing. From the moment my master named me Sebastian, I was baptized in the contract, and from that day forth, I truly became Sebastian, as I vowed by the moon.”

            (Y/N) had to admit they understood why Grell was so fascinated with Sebastian. With such poetry, such power, and such an appearance in the moonlight, Sebastian was the epitome of the demonic beauty that tempted so many humans.

            “A vow that sways as the moon waxes and wanes?” scoffed Grell. “You are quite the inconsistent man.” She smirked. “Your eyes are filled with impurity that loves absolutely nothing. You are a demon that befouls pure souls with your hands and lips.”

            (Y/N)’s eyes flicked to Sebastian, and his eyes gleamed fuchsia. Neither demon felt bad about any of the acts they had committed over the centuries.

            “Ah, how splendid you both are! I can’t decide, I must have both!” cried Grell, blushing. “Hold me in your arms and kiss me until I lose my mind!”

            “Please stop. That is disgusting,” said Sebastian, shivering.

            “I think she already has lost her mind,” said (Y/N).

            “How cruel to reject my love!” cried Grell. Her chainsaw revved to life. “Beautiful tyrant!” she cried to Sebastian as she swung at him. Whirling on (Y/N), she forced them to dodge as she praised them, “Angelic demon!” Sebastian grabbed Grell’s wrist to keep her from moving. “Raven with heart-shaped wings!” (Y/N) stamped down on the Death Scythe to jam it into the ground. “A ferocious kitten!” She sighed dramatically as the demons held her back. “Ah, if only morning would never come, we would be able to continue our love like this forever! But our adventure must end here,” she cooed. “Let us part with a kiss!” Grell slammed her forehead against Sebastian’s, and he jerked back. “A thousand farewells!” She swung her chainsaw down on (Y/N) and sliced through their front. “Now, allow me to see your devilishly dramatic record!”

            Blood flew through the air as (Y/N) stumbled back and scraps of their Cinematic Record spiraled into the air. They gripped their chest as they watched pieces of their memories be exposed.

            Sebastian and Grell watched a roll of film fly by, dark with a hand stretching up towards the sun and people’s faces obscured by a watery prison. Another glowed with flames as angry mortals screamed and shouted.

            But those scraps flew by in flash, merely seconds in the full extent of (Y/N)’s life. The rest of the memories Grell managed to grab were just…the four troublesome servants causing issues at the mansion.

            (Y/N) narrowed their eyes as they watched Grell cry out at not getting anything more interesting. They panted as they held their chest, angry at Grell trying to get to their memories like that. Those were personal.

            Sebastian’s eyes became slits beside (Y/N). He glanced at them, his blood boiled, and his eyes flashed fuchsia. Grell had to go.

            “Just what the hell is this?!” cried Grell as she watched the other servants of the household run around like hooligans.

            “Their recent time here on Earth has been filled without nothing but that,” said Sebastian, smirking.

            “I have no interest in such domestic flashbacks!” said Grell, pouting. “I saw something good! I want it back!”

            “Grell.” (Y/N) smiled with their eyes closed, but it was chilling. “If you try to pry again, I’ll tear you to pieces in a firsthand experience of what I’ve done to people in my time as a demon.”

            Grell shivered. “Oh, now that really gets me going!” She jumped at (Y/N), but Sebastian kicked her back decisively.

            “Ah, (Y/N), your dress is ruined,” said Sebastian. He sighed as he pulled their coat from overtop their dress. (Y/N) raised an eyebrow but allowed him to take it. “It was not my wish to employ this sort of tactic, but I have no choice.”

            “You’re finally going to be serious with me, then?” cooed Grell. “Let’s put an end to this with the next blow! Farewell to this world! Let us be bonded to each other in the next, darlings!”

            She leapt at the demons, and Sebastian threw up (Y/N)’s coat and jammed it into the Death Scythe. Grell stared in surprise as the blades stopped turning.

            “Hey!” she cried, trying to pull the fabric out.

            “That jacket is made from the finest Yorkshire wool. You will find that there’s a lot of friction in wool production,” said Sebastian. “Once it is woven, it is quite hard to tear apart. I didn’t want to use it, but you had already ruined it.” He smirked and stood over Grell with (Y/N). “Well then, I have a bit of confidence in plain fistfights.”

            “Absolutely,” said (Y/N), smirking darkly at Sebastian.

            “W-Wait a minute!” said Grell. “Please, not the face!”

            Sebastian kicked Grell in the face and sent her flying off the roof and falling to the ground below. (Y/N) attacked in the air, punching her so she hit the ground hard. The demons landed beside Ciel as he glanced at the reaper lying in a heap before looking at them.

            “You’re in quite the state,” said Ciel, glancing at Sebastian’s torn shoulder and (Y/N)’s bloody front.

            “We had a little resistance,” said (Y/N) distastefully.

            “Hey!” cried Grell.

            Sebsatian’s eyes slid to Grell. “My, that’s a reaper for you. I suppose you would not die from blows alone.”

            “But Sebastian, she was so kind and brought along her own weapon,” said (Y/N), smirking playfully.

            “You’re right, she did,” said Sebastian, smirking and picking up the Death Scythe. “And a reaper’s scythe can cut through anything, which means it should be able to cut through you, right?”

            “Wh-what?” stammered Grell from the ground. “W-wait a moment!”

            Sebastian stamped down on Grell. “It is quite unpleasant to be stepped upon. Doing the stepping, however, feels good.”

            “It hurts!” cried Grell dramatically.

            “I hope so,” chirped (Y/N).

            “Young Master, even though this hideous reprobate is a reaper, a god of death, are you prepared to accept the consequences of killing her?” questioned Sebastian.

            “Are you trying to make me give the same order twice?” snapped Ciel.

            “Understood,” said Sebastian. He pulled the wool coat from the Death Scythe, and it roared to life.

            “W-wait!” cried Grell.

            “My, you do have an attractive screaming voice,” said Sebastian slyly. He raised the chainsaw above his head. “Let me reward you.” He was going to be immensely satisfied by ending Grell’s life, for more reasons than just being ordered by Ciel. “I will let you depart via this beloved toy of yours!” He looked at (Y/N). “Ready?”

            “Absolutely,” said (Y/N).

            Sebastian smirked. “Perfect.” He swung the chainsaw down.

            A metallic object stretched out from above and blocked the attack before it reached Grell. Sebastian and (Y/N)’s eyes snapped up to see another man standing over them. He wore a suit and spectacles and had the same fluorescent eyes as Grell. It was another reaper.

            “Forgive me for interrupting you mid-conversation,” said the reaper formally. “I am one of the supervisors of the Reaper Dispatch Organization. William T. Spears. I have come to take that reaper back.”

            “Will! William!” cried Grell gratefully. “You came to save m—!” Her head was slammed into the ground as William landed basically on top of her.

            “Dispatcher Grell Sutcliffe, you have committed several regulations violations,” reported William. “First, the elimination of those not on the To Die list. Next, the use of a non-sanctioned Death Scythe. And finally, the disclosure of information pertaining to the lives and circumstances of death of the aforementioned departed.” He bowed to (Y/N) and Sebastian. “I apologize profusely for any inconvenience caused by this.” Sebastian and (Y/N) were not impressed, nor were they moved by William extended a business card to them. “Here is my business card.” William raised an eyebrow distastefully. “Honestly. Having to bow my head to vermin like you really does smear mud across the reaper name.”

            (Y/N) scoffed, and Sebastian replied, “Well, in order for you not to cause the ‘vermin’ further inconvenience, please keep a close watch. Humans are vulnerable to temptation. When they are forced to stand on the hellish precipice of despair, they will unfailingly take any route out of it that appears to them, no matter what kind of web it tangles them in, no matter what kind of person they are.”

            “The ones who take advantage of that and taunt humans are you demons, no?” said William stiffly.

            “Neither of us deny it,” said (Y/N), smiling pleasantly.

            William glanced at Sebastian and then at Ciel, knowing they were contracted. “I suppose that those dogs kept leashed as pets are better than the mad dogs that roam around with no principles.” His eyes moved to (Y/N). “The ones who can go about as they please are troublesome strays.”

            (Y/N)’s eyes flashed fuchsia, and they smiled. “I’m no dog.”

            William tsked before looking down at Grell. “Well, then, we shall return, Grell Sutcliffe.” He grabbed her hair and began dragging her behind him. “My goodness, at a time when we’re already short-handed, once again, I won’t get to leave today. Of course, the director will scold us anyway…If I keep having to do overtime like this—”

            Sebastian threw Grell’s Death Scythe at William. The reaper caught it between two fingers.

            “You forgot that,” said Sebastian with a “pleasant” smile.

            “Thank you,” said William with cold civility, letting the Death Scythe lay on Grell’s stomach carelessly. He adjusted his glasses. “Well, then, excuse us.” William pulled Grell after him, and they disappeared into the night.

            (Y/N) put their hands on their hips. They were disappointed at not getting to finish Grell off, especially for having nearly exposed their private memories, but at least the reaper was gone. Their hand traced over their chest, but although blood stained the clothes, the skin beneath was already healing due to their demonic nature.

            Sebastian glanced at (Y/N) and then at their wound. Satisfied that they were recovering well, he turned to Ciel, who sat beside Madame Red’s body. “I must apologize. I let the other half of Jack the Ripper escape,” he said.

            “It’s fine. It’s over,” said Ciel dully. Sebastian stepped over to guide Ciel to his feet, but he slapped Sebastian’s hand away. “I can stand on my own.”

l

            “So, the funeral arrangements went to plan?” remarked (Y/N), pulling a red rose petal from the shoulder of Sebastian’s jacket. They had known Ciel planned to give Madame Red a true departure in red as she would have wanted.

            “Yes,” said Sebastian. “The Young Master created quite the impression.”

            “Just as the Madame would have wanted,” said (Y/N). They turned and went back to folding clothes (better to keep Mey-Rin away from this since she had somehow managed to tear several pieces of clothing last time).

            “I will never understand the need for humans to have such a ceremony surrounding death. They spend their short lives fearing it and yet obsess over it at the same time,” said Sebastian in amusement.

            (Y/N) paused in their work. “Death is the one thing they cannot avoid. They cannot beat it once it comes for them. And as we have seen over the centuries, all it takes is a moment for death to arrive, and then they have to face the unknown.”

            Sebastian cocked his head. “Do you speak from observation or experience?” He gazed at (Y/N) as they slowly put the shirt they were folding down.

            (Y/N)’s eyes were fuchsia as they met his gaze. “My…mortal life was long ago. I faced death and came out of it stronger.”

            Sebastian smiled. “Yes, you did.” He remembered the same look in their eyes the first time he had ever seen them, the same weight of knowing a human life before becoming a demon. And he found it as fascinating now as he had then.

            (Y/N) blinked as they saw a strange look in his eyes. The fuchsia left their eyes as they relaxed. Sebastian wasn’t disrespecting them for having been human, nor was he prying. (Y/N) respected his slight, very slight, honor.

            “I speak from experience,” said (Y/N), simply, answering his original question. “As a demon I know that once I die there is nothing else for me. As a human, I didn’t know what awaited me, not really. That is why mortals have such a fascination with death despite their fear.”

            Sebastian raised an eyebrow. “And those two older memories that appeared. Were those your death and experience after?”

            (Y/N) was silent. Sebastian had never asked about their human death. They had never spoken about it. “They are what led to my death.”

            “Do you feel shame about your human life?” questioned Sebastian suddenly.

            “Excuse me?” (Y/N)’s eyes flashed. “I died and came back a demon. I’ve lived for centuries bringing justice and power to those who are preyed upon by other humans. What do I have to be ashamed of?”

            Sebastian chuckled as (Y/N) spoke before he opened his eyes. His eyes were glowing in the evening’s creeping darkness. He reached up, and his hand brushed over their skin. “Nothing. No demon like you should be ashamed of anything.” He smirked. “I chose to teach you for a reason.”

            “Because I had already died?” remarked (Y/N), eyes darting to Sebastian’s hand. They should be worried about his touch, uncomfortable as usual, but they weren’t. They stood calmly before Sebastian.

            “Because you had strength already,” said Sebastian.

            (Y/N) raised an eyebrow and was about to ask what that meant, but Sebastian smiled and stepped back. “Continue with your work. We shall have a busy day ahead of us tomorrow.” And with that, he left (Y/N) alone.

            (Y/N) gripped the shirt in their hand tightly before letting it fall to the table they were working at. What was that? (Y/N) sighed and ran a hand through their hair. They were a damn demon. They shouldn’t be at all offput with someone being that close. They’ve literally seduced dozens of people. But for some reason, Sebastian made them actually have a reaction.

            Pushing aside the feelings wasn’t working. (Y/N) couldn’t escape the thoughts. They were attracted to Sebastian. They liked him far more than a demon should like anyone. They liked the one demon who respected them but was also so skilled as a demon that he didn’t get attached to anyone.

            Damn.

l

            Sebastian quietly watched the stray cats hanging around the mansion eat the scraps of food he had given them. Ordinarily, he’d be cuddling and cooing over the cats by now, but his mind was otherwise engaged. As much as Sebastian attempted to ignore it, the picture of (Y/N)’s blood spilling flitted through his mind continuously.

            (Y/N) had come closer to death than he had ever seen them.

            And Sebastian hated it. He hated it because he was attached and he didn’t want to let them go. Sebastian narrowed his eyes. (Y/N) may have seemed unconcerned due to having already died before—which also made Sebastian angry since if drowning or flames were part of their death that was suffering he wished to impose on whoever had caused it—but Sebastian hat despised the situation. He wanted to keep them close. He shouldn’t want the bond, but he did.

            Sebastian straightened. He was attracted to (Y/N). He was attracted to the strange, human-born demon that respected him and earned his own respect and honor.

            And now he had admitted it.

Taglist:

@technikerin23

@im-making-an-effort

@izzieg3987

@jinxxangel13

@alexpangender

@otomyoli

@neenieweenie

@nex-crowley

@anxious-chick

@bellacastiel

@v1l-ismissing

[acourtofwhatthefuck]

hey love! for the acotar smut prompts would u consider 2, 8, and 11 for azriel or lucien <3

Here you go, love! I chose 8 & 11 for Lucien, hope that’s okay. I feel like it went off on a bit of a tangent so I hope you like it lol💋

—————————————————————————

The meeting was not supposed to get this out of hand.

You’d promised Rhysand — explicitly promised him — that you’d be on your best behaviour while delivering a message to the Spring Court. And you truly had intended to cordially deliver it to Tamlin and leave.

Until you’d bumped into Lucien — your past love.

Things had been idyllic between you. You’d loved him fiercely, just as he’d loved you. Until after the war, when he’d decided to return to the Spring Court. To return his loyalty to Tamlin — even after everything had happened — rather than remain with you in the Night Court. It had cleaved the two of you apart, and things hadn’t been so idyllic since then.

Six horrible, miserable months had passed since. And you weren’t stupid enough to believe it just a coincidence that Rhys had elected you to deliver his message and risk running into Lucien.

Which was precisely what had occurred. And it hadn’t taken long for tensions to become fraught. You couldn’t bear to face him, to sit in the same room as him and the male who had come between you. Your quick temper may have got the better of you.

You’d made your exit on a particularly colourful parting, and were hurrying back through the house when you heard rushed, thudding footsteps following. You sped up, trying to cross the length of the tea room and reach the glass double doors to the garden, but Lucien was hot on your trail.

“Get back here, Y/N.” He snarled at you from behind. “We’re not done talking.”

“Oh yes we are.” You snapped back, shaking with rage. “I’m leaving.”

You needed to get out of there. Needed to be far away from Lucien and Tamlin and the damn Spring Court before you did something really stupid. Like burn the entire estate down.

Or show Lucien just how much he’d hurt you.

“Hey,” he caught up to you, grabbing your hand. “I don’t want to fight. I just want us to talk.”

You stopped, rounding on him. Ripped your hand away. “I have nothing to say to you.”

“We’ll I have plenty to say to you. I’ve written about a thousand letters—”

“And I burned them all.” You sneered. “Every single one of them.”

Lucien’s eyes flared. He glared down at you, face a picture of fury laced with hurt. “I understand why you’re angry—”

“No you don’t!”

Your voice was hoarse from the shouting you’d already done, but you pushed yourself, loud words echoing through the room. Lucien blinked at you.

“You don’t understand a fucking thing—”

You words were cut short as Lucien grabbed your face in his hands, crushing your lips against his in a passionate kiss and stealing the breath from your lungs. His touch on you was searing, and you faltered, almost lost yourself—

You shoved against his chest, parting him from you. “Don’t fucking touch me!”

“Drop the damn act, Y/N.” His chest was heaving. “I think you’re forgetting how well I know you. How easily I can read you. You may act like you hate me, but deep down, you want me to touch you. You love me and I love you—”

“I can’t stand you!” You screamed, shoving at his chest again.

His jaw ticked, and suddenly he was yanking you against him, walking the two of you towards the huge wall of windows that overlooked the gardens. You were sure the staff could hear your yelling, were probably peeking out from around hedges and trees to see what the fuss was, but your anger made it impossible for you to care.

“Yell at me again,” Lucien hissed, “and I’ll give you a reason to scream.”

You stared at him — gaped at him — and he stared back. Both of you were trembling, breathing heavily. You hated him and loved him and wanted him, and you wished his words didn’t have the power to set you on fire.

But they did. And they had.

The two of you surged forward at the same time, meeting in a hard, rough kiss. Lucien had always had the ability to turn the direction of your moods within seconds. Anger became lust, and suddenly, you couldn’t kiss him hard enough, couldn’t undress him fast enough.

Your back hit the window with a resounding smack, and Lucien’s strong hands ripped your shirt open, buttons scattering over the floor. His lips seared yours as he moved to the laces on your breeches, and he tugged at them harshly, yanking them down as quickly as he possibly could.

“Gods,” You huffed into his mouth, tugging at his hair. “This is a terrible idea.”

His hands faltered. “You want me to stop?”

“No.”

“Good,” he growled. “Because I wanna fuck you against the glass so everyone can see how well you take it.”

His delicious, filthy words drew a moan from your throat, and you ripped at his clothes hungrily, freeing the long, hard length of him.

You hissed between your teeth. You missed this. Missed him. And if you didn’t have him inside you immediately—

“Turn around.” His eyes flashed with need, darting down to your parted shirt, your bare breasts.

You did as he said.

His arms came around you, one kneading your breast and the other sliding between your legs, his fingers sliding inside you. And then he was pushing you up against the window, your cheek pressed to the glass.

“Have you missed this?” His hair tickled your skin as he pressed a soft kiss to your cheek, pumping his fingers. “Missed me touching you? Fucking you?”

“Yes.” You admitted on a gasp. “You’re still an asshole, though.”

He pulled his fingers out of you. And the loss was quickly replaced with the head of his cock, slipping between your folds.

“Be that as it may,” he said quietly, “I’m an asshole who loves you. Who’s missed you. Missed my girl.”

The tip pushed into you, and you sucked in a sharp breath, biting your lip. “I bet you’ve been fucking any female that comes near—”

He slipped further into you, causing your words to die in your throat. He pinched your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. “I haven’t fucked anyone.” He said, pushing and pushing. “It’s just been me and my hand and thoughts of you.”

You couldn’t help moaning. At him, his words, the feel of him filling you. The image of him fisting at his cock whilst thinking of you.

“What kind of thoughts?” You tipped your head back, resting it against him.

As he stilled, allowing you to adjust to him fully inside of you, he released your breast, sliding his hand down to toy with your clit. Your hips jerked at the sensation, both too much and not enough.

“How you feel around my cock,” he growled, pulling out and thrusting back in. “The noises you make. Your facial expressions. How hard you make me cum.”

“Gods,” you moaned, reaching back to thread your fingers in his hair. “Yes.”

His hips picked up, fingers working at your clit harder, faster. “And all the different places and different ways we’ve fucked. Although,” He growled, “we’ve never done it against a window like this. Does it get you off? Knowing that people are probably watching me fuck you?”

Gods, it did. And it got Lucien off just as much, evidently, as he released a gruff sound and began to relentlessly pound into you.

“Fuck, just like that.” He hissed, skin loudly slapping yours. “Feel good? Are you gonna cum for me, my girl?”

You were long beyond the ability to form any more words, only filthy, needy noises escaping you. And when Lucien pressed down on your clit and truly let loose on you, you absolutely fucking lost it.

A scream tore through you, your hands tugging at his hair as he fucked you through your orgasm. You were clenching around him, begging him to fall over that edge with you. You wanted to feel him cumming, to know that he was close behind you—

“Fuck,” He kissed your neck, his voice shaking. “I’m so close. So close.”

You moaned, still clenching around him. Somehow managed to find your raspy, fucked-out voice. “I haven’t…” you gasped, moving your hips perfectly with his, “fucked anyone else either, you know.”

Those very words seemed to be the one that sent him freefalling into utter bliss.

He grabbed at your hips, and managed a few more staggered thrusts before he roared his release into your neck and spilled inside you. He filled you up completely, and he seemed unable to hold himself up any longer as he collapsed against you, pushing you closer up to the glass.

Moments passed of silence. And then he kissed your neck. Your cheek. Ran a gentle hand over your shoulder.

“Neither of us are fucking anyone else.” He said. “Ever.”

[moonlightdreamzz]

THIN APOLOGIES / PART 1

SUMMARY ✰ Mark is your boyfriend, and Vernon is your best friend. You're sick of Mark not treating you right, and Vernon is too. He's also sick of watching from the sidelines when he knows no one can make you happier than him.

PAIRING ✰ Idol!Mark x Idol!Reader x Idol!Vernon

GENRE ✰ ANGST & FLUFF

NOTE ✰ This is actually the first story I ever wrote in my entire life three years ago. It’s my baby. I said to myself, I should rewrite this because the original version was written like the beginner I was at the time. I hope you all enjoy. It’s so good.

© moonlightdreamzz

Blonde by Frank Ocean has been playing on loop for hours over your speakers. For what seems like days, your gaze has been fixed on the candle blazing in front of you. There are numerous reasons why you can't take your eyes off its flame—the first being that if you do, you'll be forced to see all of the decorations and food you prepared for Mark, who has decided for the third time in a row that you aren't important enough to show up for. All of his favorite things are strewn throughout your living room, unused.

The second reason you can't tear your gaze away from the flame is that you're intrigued. The lavender-scented wax is nearing the end of its life after being used for so long. What happens when there’s none left? Does the flame die peacefully? Or does the jar burn and combust, leaving you regretting not extinguishing the flame sooner?

Sick isn't the word to describe how your boyfriend has made you feel over the past few months. You’ve tried to see the positives of his absence right now, but it’s utterly impossible. What could you say to yourself? At least you got ditched in the comfort of your own home this time, Y/N? And not in a restaurant, or a random parking lot his manager drove you to?

Mark always has his excuses of course. His favorite one to use was that you don’t understand the sacrifices it takes to be an idol. When the two of you first began to have issues, you took those words to heart. You know how much he’s sacrificed to be where he is, and you never wanted him to think you were that girl—the girl who got in a relationship with an idol and acted like she didn’t know what she was signing up for. As time passed, you realized that he was just manipulating you.

He’s so good at it too. Or maybe he’s just an incredibly beautiful man, whose doe eyes could convince anybody that he indeed is a good person—he just doesn’t think sometimes. You just wish he’d understand that you indeed do understand his life, it’s simply his unfulfilled promises that are so incredibly frustrating. Summer Walker once said, “it doesn’t matter how hard I I try, I say it nice, yell it out loud, write it down, I’m tired.” She damn sure was right.

“Why plan a date you can’t come to? Just tell me it’ll be awhile before I’ll see you again.”

“I’m sorry, baby. I thought I could make it.”

Your phone begins vibrating on your coffee table infront of you, interrupting the reflecting that you’re tired of doing anyways. You know it’s Mark, back again with whatever his reason is this time for not showing up. For a second, you consider not picking it up. Maybe if he knew what it felt like to be abandoned, he’d stop doing it to you.

You inhale deeply before picking up the phone, surprised at whose name is popping up.

“Vernon?” You whisper to yourself. You feel a brief burst of happiness before immediately shifting to concern due to the time of night.

You and Vernon have been close friends since debut. Some would say it’s because you two are the English speakers of your group, but you only saw that as a plus in your friendship. In reality, Vernon was a quirky, artsy, adorably curious boy, and you always felt this weird urge to…protect him. You figure he was drawn to how you never judged him, and how open you were about what you referred to as “Vernon’s philosophies”. He got your jokes, and you pretended you understood his. The rest is history.

Laughter escapes your throat, scaring you simultaneously as you can’t remember the last time you genuinely found anything funny. In the midst of your giggles, Vernon begins to FaceTime you, and you don’t hesitate to answer the phone.

You can see through the phone how hard he’s trying to be irritated with you, but you also notice how bad he’s failing at doing so. The corner of his pink lips are twitching, and his hooded eyes are melting along with it as neither of you break virtual eye contact with each other. This only makes you laugh even harder. His flawless features don’t hold long, and he’s smirking boyishly now.

“You really think this is funny, huh?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well you know what I think is funny right now? You’re alone right now.” He jokes.

“Ha ha,” You laugh sarcastically, “Am I really this worthless? Like be honest.” You question, a sad smile naturally creeping onto your features as reality attempts to set back in.

Vernon’s eyes roll aggressively, followed by a deep inhale. You know him. He wants to tell you about yourself, and remind you of all the times you promised him you’d have more confidence, just to end up asking him questions like this in the end. It takes him longer than you expected to find kind words to say to you, but you appreciate the fact that he cares enough to spare you, because he wouldn’t do it for anyone else.

“Don’t ever call yourself worthless. He’s the worthless one. If he can’t see how amazing you are,that’s his problem and you shouldn’t just sit here and take it, Y/N. That’s not even like you.”

“But…I love him.”

“Yeah...that always sucks doesn’t it?” He says, almost as if he’s speaking to himself and not you. “I know it’s late, but how about I come keep you company Y/N?. You deserve to be happy for at least a few hours don’t you think?” He chuckles.

He’s no longer looking directly at you. He’s looking at whatever is below him now. Vernon coming to keep you company isn’t a terrible idea. Right now, you so deeply crave to be around someone who actually cares about you, and he’s a clear candidate.

“Yeah! Let me get dressed and I’ll come pick you up.”

“Do really think I’d let you leave your house at this hour to do anything for me?”

“Well, how else are you gonna get here? You don’t have a car and I know your manager is knocked out.”

His boyish smile returns, and you already know a sarcastic comment is closer than around the corner. “You ever heard of uber?”

Now you’re the one rolling your eyes. Was this okay? I mean, the two of you are only friends, but Dispatch nor fans would care about that if they so happened to be stalking you. Him coming over late could turn into a whole situation that you aren’t in the mood to hear about.

“What if you get caught?” You question, although unconsciously do you begin to tidy up in your living room.

“I didn’t.”

He didn’t? Was he already—

Your doorbell ringing interrupts your thoughts.

“Vernon!” You scream through the phone, so many questions running through your mind.

“Are you going to let me in, or are we gonna hangout from outside the door?” He snickers slyly.

You should have known he was up to no good the moment you couldn't identify where he was from his surroundings. All you saw was darkness, but you imagined he was walking around his neighborhood or simply in the dark, because that was so Vernon.

With precision and quickness, you run to the door and open it. You’re still dolled up; face beat like it’s prom night from the date you should’ve been wrapping up by now. Vernon steps in, and for a second it seems like he’s frozen in place. It’s embarrassing, as you often got reactions like this when you dressed up because without an occasion, you were going to choose sweatpants, a graphic tee, and crocs everytime.

“Woah.” He utters.

“What? You just saw me on the phone, Vernon.” You question amusingly before walking to your kitchen to grab him a water.

“Thank you.” He whispers as he takes it out of your hand. “It’s just…you’re so…ugly.”

You know that he thinks you’re going to hit him immediately, so you wait an extra second before punching him lightly in his stomach.

“Shut up!” You laugh, loudly this time. It’s a rare occurrence these days for anything to unconsume your mind of Mark Lee, but Vernon’s doing that with ease right now. “You stay your ass right there and I’ll be back. I should probably take all this off.” You whisper while pointing to you and all your current glory.

“Take your time.” Vernon utters, no funny business in the room now. His smile is gentle as he nudges you towards your room.

You began walking in slow motion down your hallway. “Oh trust me, I will.” It doesn’t take you long to strip down to your natural state. You remove your clothes first, settling on a gray t-shirt you’ve had for years. If you didn’t have company, you’d stop it at that. You decide on some matching gray pajama shorts. The sight of Mark’s clothes in the drawer pisses you off all over again. As you remove your makeup, you can't help but squeal with delight. The wipes that you bought in replacement of the ones that took way too many to clean your face, was worth the investment.

The final touch is your bonnet, which you slip on your head with ease. Your icy feet drag over the hallway floor, a flood of fatigue washing over you.

“Awe.” Vernon coos when you reappear. In the midst of you getting ready for bed, he carefully placed all of the decorations you left out for Mark out of sight in the kitchen. He really wanted to throw it away, but that wasn’t his decision to make. Netflix is waiting for two of you.

“Don’t awe me.” You plop yourself on the couch so hard you’re pretty sure Vernon levitates for a second. You push the button to recline your seat, shutting your eyes right and leaning your head back with a sigh. “Thank you, Vernon.” You say the second you realize he cleaned up your clutter. The room feels less heavy now that you’re not forced to look at your wasted hard work. You feel his gaze on you, but energetically, you can’t interpret why he’s staring at you. You’ll settle on pity.

“Ah, I haven’t done much. Plus, you’ve always been there for me.”

Your comfort turns into guilt, recalling all the times you haven’t been there for your close friend in the midst of you and Mark’s relationship crashing. “Not like this.” You utter.

“Well, no you haven’t surprised me with a big box of donuts and a new video game,” He chuckles, “But you’ve been there for me. A lot of times unknowingly, if I’m being honest. Your presence alone…does a lot for me—I mean, for people.” He rambles. “Plus, I’m one of a kind, anyways.”

A smile creeps onto your features at him teasing you lovingly. You’re beginning to doze off, which typically makes you stare at things unintentionally. Your target tonight is Vernon, who is sitting extremely close to you right now. Your hand begins to entangle themselves in his locs, causing his eyes to flutter in relaxation.

“Enough about me.” You protest softly, “What’s going on in the life of Hansol, hm?”

“Nothing much,” He whispers, enjoying the feeling of your hands running through his scalp. His eyes are stuck on the ceiling, but you know he’s still listening to you. “I’m like a robot these days. I wake up, go to practice, go back to the dorm, sleep, repeat.”

“Why didn’t eat make the list?”

“Oh yeah, that too. But you know me. If I have to pick between sleeping and eating, I’m picking the first option.”

“Oh I know.” You can’t count on one hand the amount of times you scolded Vernon for sleeping too much, even though you do the same thing the second you get a break from schedules.

“Too much of a good thing, is a bad thing, Vernon.”

“Not everything.” He whispers, seemingly dazed out now. You’re ceiling wasn’t that interesting. He has something on his mind, but you’re not sure if you want to pick his brain. If he wanted you to know what’s on his mind, he’d say it. At the same time, you’re his right hand woman, and he’ll just have to deal with you being in his business.

Your eyebrows raise in an interrogative fashion. “Give me an example?”

“You.” He says simply. His eyes lock themselves into yours confidently, but you’re unsure how to feel. What was he trying to say? Is he flirting? Is he just being kind? It’s always been so hard for you to understand him when he gets like this.

“What about me?” Is all you can manage. You’re not sure why you’re nervous now, but you are. You hope you’re not making it obvious that his comment has made your breathing unsteady.

“I’m just saying it’s impossible to get tired of you. ‘Too much’ of you,” he air quotes, “would make the world a much better place.”

“You think so?” You question genuinely. “Mark doesn’t seem to think so.”

“Mark is a fucking idiot.” He spits out.

“I’m not gonna disagree.”

“I mean look at everything you did for him today, just for him to not show up?” Vernon begins to frantically point in all directions of your home, including at yourself as well as your kitchen. “What kind of boyfriend doesn’t come home to this?”

Silence is the only thing you can provide right now. One because he’s right, but two, because you’ve never seen Vernon so riled up on your behalf. He was the one always talking you off cliffs, not the other way around.

“Sorry,” He clears his throat. His voice is back to his regular tone now.

“Don’t be. Thank you for caring about me.”

You don’t know why, but you feel a desire to nuzzle into Vernon’s shoulder, so you do. Naturally, he wraps his arm around your shoulder to allow you more comfortability. Maybe it’s wrong, maybe it’s not, but it doesn’t feel wrong being in his arms right now. You know if you consider Mark, you should pull away, but when’s the last time Mark considered you?

“Is this okay?” He questions, his tone a mixture of hope and concern as he’s likely reading your mind right now. He had a knick for that when it came to you.

“It’s okay.” You decide. I mean, who’s going to catch you?

The two of you lay like that for the remainder of the night, watching a movie that Vernon puts on, but you can't concentrate. All you can think of is how you're lying in the arms of another man, your heart fluttering. That isn't supposed to happen. However, your thoughts are brief because you quickly find yourself dozing off in his arms that feel as if they never want to let you go.

It’s the wee hours of the morning when your phone rings, and then vibrates, indicating someone has called and texted you.

You and Vernon sleep through it.

TO BE CONTINUED

© moonlightdreamzz